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Victor  Hugo,  aged  20 


THE  LOVE  LETTERS  OF 
VICTOR  HUGO 

1820 -1822 


WITH     COMMENT    BY    PAUL     MEURICE 
TRANSLATED  BY  ELIZABETH  W-  LATIMER 

ILLUSTRATED   WITH   PORTRAITS 
FACSIMILE  LETTER,  ETC 


NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 
HARPER    &-    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

1901 


Copyright,  1900,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

All  rights  reserved* 


Illustrations 


VICTOR   HUGO,  AGED   20 Frontispitee 

FAC-SIMILE   OF  LETTER   TO   ADÈLE   FOUCHER Facing  p.       I 

ADÈLE    FOUCHER    AT    IQ "  50 

RESIDENCE      OF     VICTOR     HUGO,     RUE     NOTRE     DAME     DES 

CHAMPS,  1822 "  100 

VICTOR  HUGO,  AGED   28 "  200 


INTRODUCTION 


Victor  Hugo,  in  his  Feuilles  d'Automne,  speaks 
thus  of  these  letters  : 

0  mes  lettres  d'amour,  de  vertu,  de  jeunesse. 

C'est  donc  vous!     Je  m'enivre  encore  à  votre  ivresse. 

Je  vous  lis  à  genoux. 
Souffrez  que  pour  un  jour  je  reprenne  votre  âge! 
Laissez-moi  me  cacher,  moi,  l'heureux  et  le  sage. 

Pour  pleurer  avec  vous! 

J'avais  donc  dix-huit  ans  !     J 'étais  donc  plein  de  songes  I 
L'espérance  en  chantant  me  berçait  de  mensonge; 

Un  astre  m'avait  lui. 
J'étais  un  dieu  pour  toi  qu'en  mon  cœur  seul  je  nomme. 
J'étais  donc  cet  enfant,  hélas,  devant  qui  l'honune 

Rougit  presque  aujourd'hui. 

0  temps  de  rêverie,  et  de  force,  et  de  grâce! 
Attendre  tous  les  soirs  une  robe  qui  passe  I 

Baiser  un  gant  jeté! 
Vouloir  tout  de  la  vie:  amour,  puissance,  gloire! 
Etre  pur,  être  fier,  être  sublime,  et  croire 

A  toute  pureté.* 


•  Letters  of  early  manhood,  virtue,  love, 
Can  these  be  you?     Once  more  let  my  heart  move 
Responsive  as  I  kneel  to  read  you  o'er; 


Introduction 


And  here  they  are,  these  "  letters  of  early  man- 
hood, virtue,  love  " — she  to  whom  he  wrote  them  too 
modestly  destroyed  her  own,  but  she  piously  pre- 
served those  of  her  fiancé — here  they  are,  chaste  but 
ardent,  ingenuous  but  often  grave,  sportive  in  many 
places  and  yet  full  of  high  thoughts.  Here  they 
are,  with  all  their  extravagances,  their  discourage- 
ments, their  complaints,  their  bursts  of  joy,  their 
little  scoldings,  their  caresses,  their  records  of  real 
quarrels  followed  by  delicious  reconciliations.  They 
evidently  were  not  written  to  be  seen  by  other  eyes 
than  those  of  the  girl  he  loved  :  he  constantly  en- 
treats her  to  burn  them  ;  they  are  all  the  more  valua- 
ble on  that  account.  We  rarely  have  a  chance  to 
see  a  love  like  this  start  fresh  from  its  secret  fount 
in  all  its  spontaneity,  so  pure,  so  youthful,  so  sin- 
cere, and  so  profound. 

Victor  had  known  Adèle  when  they  were  children. 
Their  two  families,  the  Hugos  and  the  Fouchers, 

For  this  day  let  me  be  j^our  age  again. 
Good,  happy,  as  I  once  was — then,  with  pain. 
Let  me  shed  tears  that  I  am  so  no  more. 

I  was  eighteen!     Such  happy  dreams  had  I! 
Hope  sang  sweet  fictions  for  my  lullaby  ; 

A  gleaming  star  was  shining  over  mel 
Now  only  in  my  heart  I  breathe  thy  name. 
Then  I  was  god  to  thee  ;  but  now  with  shame 

Man  recollects  the  child  he  used  to  be. 

Lost  dreams  of  power,  success,  and  grace — alas  ! 
How  have  I  watched  until  her  robe  shovild  pass  ; 

How  lavished  kisses  on  her  fallen  glove! 
Then  I  hoped  all  from  life — love,  strength,  and  fame] 
Ah!  to  be  pure,  and  to  have  faith,  the  same 

In  all  things  pure,  as  I  had  then,  my  love. 

vi 


Introduction 


had  been  intimate  before  their  birth.  Their  children 
grew  up  together.  They  called  each  other  thee  and 
thou. 

Victor  Hugo  speaks  thus  of  the  birth  of  his  young 
affection  : 

I  see  myself  again,  a  child  in  years,  a  merry  school- 
boy, playing,  running,  shouting,  laughing  with  my 
brothers  in  the  long  green  alley  in  the  wild  garden  of 
that  home  in  which  I  passed  my  early  life.  We  dwelt 
in  the  old  Nunnery  which  lifts  its  head  over  the  dark 
dome  of  Val  de  Grâce.* 

He  sees  himself  again  :  "  I  was  still  a  boy,  but 
dreamy  and  full  of  passion,"  and  beside  him  is  a 
young  girl.  He  sees  her  "  with  her  large  bright 
eyes,  her  abundant  locks,  her  golden -brown  com- 
plexion, her  red  lips,  and  her  pink  cheeks.  ..." 

Our  mothers  [he  says]  used  to  tell  us  to  run  and  play 
together.  We  used  to  take  walks  instead.  We  were 
told  to  play,  but  we  preferred  to  talk.  We  were  children 
of  the  same  age — not  of  the  same  sex.  Nevertheless, 
for  a  year  longer  we  were  merely  playfellows  ;  we  even 
had  little  trials  of  strength.  I  took  from  her  once  the 
biggest  apple  in  the  orchard;  I  slapped  her  when  she 
would  not  let  me  have  a  bird's  nest.  She  began  to  cry. 
I  said  :  "  All  right,  then  !  We  will  go  and  tell  our  mothers. 
They  will  tell  us  both  that  we  were  wrong,  but  in  their 
hearts  each  mother  will  think  her  child  was  right." 

But  before  long  the  time  came  when  she  walked  lean- 
ing on  my  arm,  and  I  was  proud  and  experienced  some 
new  emotions.  We  walked  slowh^;  we  spoke  softly. 
She  dropped  her  handkerchief  ;  T  picked  it  up.  Our  hands 
touched  each  other,  and  trembled.     She  began  to  talk 

*  Le  dernier  jour  d'un  condatnnJ. 

vii 


Introduction 


about  the  little  birds,  about  the  star  over  our  heads, 
about  the  crimson  after-glow  of  the  sunset  behind  the 
trees,  about  her  school-mates,  her  frocks,  her  ribbons. 
We  talked  innocently  of  commonplace  things;  yet  we 
both  blushed,  for  the  little  girl  had  grown  a  maiden. 

She  in  her  turn  tells  the  same  story. 

In  August,  1818,  Mme.  Hugo  no  longer  lived  at 
the  Feuillantines,  as  they  called  the  Nunnery.  The 
general  said  that  his  half-pay  did  not  permit  him 
to  give  his  wife  and  boys  the  luxury  of  a  garden. 
They  moved  into  a  less  expensive  apartment,  on  the 
third  story  of  No.  18  Rue  des  Petits-Augustins. 

After  dinner  Mme.  Hugo  always  went  to  pay  a 
visit  to  her  old  friend,  Mme.  Foucher.  If  her  two 
boys  were  out  of  school,  they  always  accompanied 
her.  Almost  every  evening  during  the  winter  of 
1818-1819,  the  porter  at  the  Hôtel  de  Toulouse*  said, 
he  would  see  Eugène  and  Victor  coming  along,  arm 
in  arm,  in  company  with  their  mother,  who  carried 
her  work-bag  in  her  hand,  and  wore  a  purple  merino 
dress,  nearly  covered  by  a  cashmere  shawl  with  a 
palm-leaf  border. 

Mme.  Foucher  used  her  bed-chamber  as  a  sitting- 
room.  It  was  a  large  room,  with  a  deep  alcove.  The 
visitor  always  found  her  arm-chair  waiting  for  her 
at  one  corner  of  the  hearth,  and,  without  taking  off 
her  shawl  and  bonnet,  would  sit  down  in  it,  take  her 
needle-work  out  of  her  bag,  and  begin  sewing.  M. 
Foucher  had  his  place  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth, 

*  The  hôtel  of  the  Conseil  de  Guerre,  Rue  Cherche-Midi,  where 
M.  Foucher,  former  secretary  of  the  Council,  continued  to  keep  his 
apartment. 

viii 


Introduction 


with  a  stand  near  him,  on  which  were  placed  his 
tobacco-box  and  a  wax  candle.  Between  him  and 
Mme.  Hugo,  at  a  long  narrow  table,  Mme.  Foucher 
and  her  daughter  sat  at  work,  and  Eugène,  Victor, 
and  Victor  Foucher  made  up  the  circle. 

Those  evenings,  we  should  think,  were  very  dull 
ones.  The  head  of  the  household  had  been  so  much 
broken  in  health  by  long  nights  of  insomnia  that  he 
did  not  care  for  bustle  or  conversation.  He  sat  apart 
in  his  corner  with  his  books.  Mme.  Foucher,  anx- 
ious not  to  disturb  him,  and  by  nature  very  quiet 
herself,  talked  but  little.  Eugène  and  Victor  had 
been  always  told  by  their  mother  never  to  speak 
unless  they  were  spoken  to.  Mme.  Hugo  would  oc- 
casionally interrupt  her  sewing  to  open  her  snuff- 
box— she  took  snuff,  as  well  as  M.  Foucher.  She 
would  then  offer  her  box  to  her  old  friend,  saying, 
"  M.  Foucher,  won't  you  take  a  pinch?"  He  would 
say  "  yes  "  or  "  no,"  and,  for  the  most  part,  those 
were  the  only  sentences  except  "  good  -  day  "  and 
"  good-night  "  exchanged  between  them  during  the 
whole  evening. 

But  those  monotonous  evenings  had  an  especial 
charm  for  Victor;  what  this  was  even  he  might  at 
first  have  found  it  hard  to  explain.  When  dinner  was 
over  at  home,  he  was  eager  to  set  out  for  Mme.  Fou- 
cher's,  and  hurried  Eugène  if  he  were  not  ready. 
In  the  street  he  was  impatient  to  get  there  even  before 
his  mother.  When,  by  any  chance,  he  could  not  go 
to  the  Hôtel  de  Toulouse,  he  was  unhappy. 

It  was  not  that  he  enjoyed  watching  the  wood-fire  on 
the  hearth,  or  passing  two  long  hours  sitting  still  on  a 

ix 


Introduction 


badly  stuffed  chair.  He  did  not  care  if  there  was  not 
a  word  spoken.  He  was  satisfied  if  M.  Foucher  did  not 
look  up  from  his  book,  or  if  the  ladies  were  intent  upon 
their  sewing,  for  then  he  could  look  as  long  as  he  liked 
at  Mile.  Adèle. 

For  some  time  Victor  seemed  satisfied  by  thus  con- 
templating her  steadily.  It  may  have  been  timidity 
that  kept  him  so,  or  it  may  have  been  because  it  was 
very  difficult  to  see  Adèle  by  herself  ;  possibly  he  did 
not  fully  understand  what  was  taking  place  within 
him.  Young  people  in  those  days  may  have  been 
in  want  of  some  little  instruction. 

We  know,  from  one  of  the  letters  written  in  1 821, 
the  very  day,  and  in  what  manner,  the  hearts  of  these 
two  young  people  became  known  to  each  other.  It 
was  on  April  26,  18 19.  Victor  was  seventeen  years 
old,  and  Adèle  sixteen. 

Even  w^hen  they  made  to  each  other  the  supreme 
confession,  they  were  mere  children  playing  the  game 
of  love,  as  other  young  persons  at  their  age  play  hide- 
and-seek.  It  was  all  very  naïf  —  very  charming. 
Adèle,  bolder  and  more  curious  than  Victor  (for  she 
was  a  girl),  wanted  to  find  out  what  was  the  mean- 
ing of  his  silent  admiration.  She  said  :  "  I  am  sure 
you  have  secrets.  Have  you  not  one  secret,  greater 
than  all?"  Victor  acknowledged  that  he  had  secrets, 
and  that  one  of  them  was  greater  than  all  the  rest. 
"Just  like  me!"  cried  Adèle.  "Well,  come  now%  tell 
me  your  greatest  secret,  and  I  will  tell  you  mine." 
"  My  great  secret,"  Victor  replied,  "  is  that  I  love  you." 
"  And  my  great  secret  is  that  I  love  you,"  said  Adèle, 
like  an  echo. 

X 


Introduction 


The  ice  was  broken.  It  was  no  gradual  thaw; 
yet  the  love  of  these  young  people  was  moderate  and 
under  restraint. 

From  our  most  innocent  lips  that  day 

Hardly  escaped  expressions  of  our  love; 
One  word  was  all  that  we  had  power  to  say. 

There  was  no  transport  in  j^our  love  for  me. 
And  mine  for  you  was  from  all  madness  free.* 

After  this  letters  were  occasionally  exchanged,  but 
it  seems  that  they  were  "  cold  and  short."  They  were 
not  preserved. 

The  moment  drew  near  when  the  loving  pair  were 
to  be  for  a  short  time  separated. 

Winter  was  nearly  over.  Mme.  Foucher  always 
hired  for  the  summer  a  little  place  in  the  suburbs  of 
Paris — in  the  banlieux.  The  summer  of  1819  she  spent 
at  Issy.  This  going  into  the  country  was  a  great  grief 
to  Victor.  In  vain  he  tried  to  prove  that  Issy  was  not 
much  farther  off  than  the  hôtel  of  the  Conseil  de  Guerre, 
that  once  through  Vaugirard,  you  would  be  there  ;  but 
visits  could  not  be  paid  every  day,  though  often  when 
the  weather  was  fine  Mme.  Hugo  would  take  the  two 
l^oys  and  set  out  for  Issy.  On  their  way  she  would 
buy  baskets  of  fruit,  which  they  were  delighted  to  carry. 
On  arriving  they  handed  them  over  to  the  servant,  who 
would  hasten  to  set  three  more  places  at  the  breakfast 
table.  When  the  fruit  had  been  eaten  the}^  would  go 
out-doors  to  enjo3"  the  fresh  air  in  the  garden. "f 

Autumn  at  last  came,  and  the  Foucher  family  re- 

*  Raymond  d'AscoIi.     See  Œuvres  de  la  première  jeunesse. 
t  Victor  Hugo,  as  related  by  Un  U'ntoin  de  sa  vie. 

xi 


Introduction 


turned  to  Paris.    The  fire  had  been  kept  aHve  during 
their  short  absence. 

Sweet  incHnation  grew  a  quenchless  flame.* 

Love  had  entered  into  the  heart  and  into  the  very 
Ufe  of  Victor  Hugo.  Thenceforward  it  was  to  be 
stronger  than  all  else,  and  it  grew  more  and  more 
resistless  day  by  day. 

It  was  on  their  return  from  Issy,  during  the  last 
months  of  1819,  that  a  regular  correspondence  be- 
tween Victor  and  Adèle  must  have  commenced.  Vic- 
tor by  this  time  seems  to  have  grown  a  less  timid 
lover;  he  asked  and  obtained  from  Adèle  appoint- 
ments to  meet  in  places  where  they  could  see  each 
other  alone. 

In  the  first  place,  there  was  the  garden  of  the  Hôtel 
de  Toulouse,  where  Adèle  lived — a  beautiful  garden, 
with  great  trees  at  the  end  of  it.  When  her  mother 
was  out,  Adèle  would  make  her  escape  from  the  house, 
run  swiftly  down -stairs,  and  glide  along  a  shady 
path  to  meet  Victor,  who  was  expecting  her,  "  under 
the  chestnut-trees."  Then  sometimes  in  the  morning 
Adèle  would  go  to  market  in  her  mother's  stead,  as 
was  a  common  practice  in  those  days,  when  the  man- 
ners of  the  bourgeoisie  were  more  simple  than  they 
are  at  present,  and  when  charming  young  girls  of 
that  class  w^ore  caps  like  the  peasantry.  The  little 
housekeeper  would  make  her  purchases,  and  then, 
not  without  some  scruples  of  conscience,  she  would 
hasten  to  join  Victor  in  some  quiet  street  where  he 

*  Odes  et  Ballades. 

xii 


Intro  du  ci  ion 


was  waiting  for  her.  After  a  time  M.  Foucher's 
health  improved.  He  saw  his  friends  with  some  en- 
joyment in  the  evenings.  Adèle's  young  friends 
came  to  visit  her  with  their  parents.  The  guests 
talked  and  laughed,  and  divided  into  groups  or 
pairs.  One  of  these  last  was  frequently  Victor  and 
Adèle;  but  their  furtive  talks  were  necessarily  very 
brief;  they  had  to  be  supplemented  by  writing. 

We  have  not  the  earliest  of  these  letters  ;  they  were 
probably  not  very  different  from  those  preserved. 
The  letters  of  the  boy  were  doubtless  full  of  passion, 
while  those  of  the  girl  were  full  of  anxiety.  Their 
state  of  mind  was  not  the  same. 

Victor  at  seventeen  thinks  like  a  man,  and  he 
wants  his  own  way  like  a  man.  He  is  sure  of  him- 
self, he  is  confident  in  his  own  sincerity,  confident  of 
his  love  and  of  his  honorable  intentions;  nor  does 
he  doubt  his  own  courage  and  constancy.  If  they 
must  wait,  he  will  wait.  If  obstacles  are  in  their 
way,  he  will  surmount  them  He  will  not  admit  that 
anj^thing  can  be  impossible.  He  considers  Adèle  as 
already  his  wife,  and  boldly  signs  his  letters  to  her, 
"  Your  Husband."  But  Adèle  is  as  yet  onl3^a  child. 
With  great  intelligence  and  noble  sentiments,  she  has 
a  child's  heart.  She  is  quite  innocent  and  tender- 
hearted. With  the  ignorance,  the  wonder,  the  jo3'', 
the  fears,  and  the  scruples  of  a  child,  she  accepts  and 
returns  the  love  he  offers  her. 

And,  indeed,  as  she  was  a  3^oung  girl,  she  was 
right  to  be  more  scrupulous,  more  alive  to  the  proprie- 
ties, than  her  lover.  And  to  what,  we  wonder,  will 
this  premature  love  lead  these  young  people  at  their 

xiii 


Ill  fro  du  et  ton 


age  and  in  their  circumstances?  On  the  first  discov- 
ery of  their  secret  the  duty  of  their  parents  must  be 
to  separate  them.  For  which  reason  they  agreed 
rarely  to  speak  unless  they  were  alone  together,  and 
in  the  presence  of  other  people  to  pretend  that  they 
were  wholly  indifferent  to  each  other. 

But  this  pretence  was  painful  to  Adèle.  Victor's 
mother,  to  whom  he  was  as  submissive  and  obedient 
as  a  boy  of  twelve,  still  looked  upon  him  as  a  child, 
and  never  for  one  moment  imagined  that  at  his  age 
he  could  be  in  love.  Adèle's  mother,  more  quick- 
sighted,  fancied  that  she  had  seen  more  than  one 
sign  of  something  which,  however,  she  supposed 
to  be  mere  childishness;  but  she  kept  a  strict  look- 
out, she  asked  questions,  and  reproved  her  daugh- 
ter. Poor  Adèle,  much  worried,  complained  of  this 
to  Victor.  Sometimes  she  blamed  him,  and  some- 
times she  lost  her  temper.  But,  in  fact,  all  that 
the  poor  child  asked  was  to  follow  the  instincts  of 
her  own  heart.  When  Victor  fancied  that  she  did 
not  love  him,  when  she  saw  him  despondent,  she 
hastened  to  ask  his  forgiveness.  He  was  already, 
as  his  verses  say,  "  her  god." 

His  success  as  a  poet,  his  fame,  which  was  already 
beginning  to  shine,  was  dear  to  him  now  as  a  pledge 
of  success  in  a  literary  career.  We  must  not  forget 
that  Chateaubriand  had  called  him  Venfant  sublime, 
that  in  Royalist  salons  his  ode  Les  Destins  de  la 
Vendée  and  his  satire  Le  Télégraphe  were  spoken  of 
with  admiration,  and  that  the  Académie  des  Jeux 
Floraux  de  Toulouse  had  given  two  of  its  first  prizes 
to  his  poem  on  Le  Rétablissement  de  la  Statue  de 

xiv 


Introduction 


Henri  IV.,  and  a  beautiful  short  poem,  written  when 
he  was  sixteen.  Les  Vierges  de  Verdun. 

Since  we  have  none  of  the  letters  exchanged  by 
the  lovers  in  the  autumn  of  1819,  the  first  written  tes- 
timony we  possess  of  Victor  Hugo's  love  may  be 
found  in  some  verses  called  Le  Premier  Soupir, 
dated  in  December  of  that  year. 

Great  was  the  delight  of  Adèle  w^hen  the  young 
poet  gave  her  these  verses,  telling  her  to  read  them 
by  herself,  for  they  were  verses  made  for  her  alone. 
There  was  plentj^  of  despair  and  sadness  in  the  poem. 
It  was  an  elegy  ;  how  could  it  be  otherwise,  for  every 
verse  spoke  of  dying.  They  were  sad  lines,  but  oh! 
how  beautiful!  And  when  the  poet,  foreseeing  his 
death,  asks  for  some  little  recompense  for  his  devo- 
tion, Adèle  in  her  enthusiasm  promised  the  real  poet 
to  give  him  twelve  kisses.  Twelve  w^as  a  great  many. 
It  appears  in  the  sequel  that  she  only  gave  him  four. 

.  .  .  Ces  vers  pour  qui  ton  jeune  amour 
M'a  promis  des  baisers,  que  ta  prudence  craintive 
Me  refuse  de  jour  en  jour.* 

Nevertheless,  these  verses  and  these  kisses  were 
before  long  the  cause  of  fresh  trouble  to  Adèle. 

We  have  said  that  she  had  some  young  girls  for 
her  friends.  Now,  when  a  young  person  has  friends, 
and  has  received  a  copy  of  beautiful  verses,  how  can 
it  be  expected  that  the  poem  will  not  be  shown  to 
them,  and  when  showing  it,  how  could  she  fail  to  add 
that  she  was  the  maiden  beloved  by  the  real  poet? 

*  Raymond  d'Ascoli  :  Œuvres  de  la  première  jeunesse. 
XV 


Introduction 


Whereupon  she  received  congratulations  from  her 
friends.  "  But  you — do  you  love  him?"  "  Could  I  do 
less?"  "  Did  you  ever  tell  him  that  you  loved  him?" 
"  How  could  I  hide  it?"  And  then  she  owned  the 
price  he  asked — the  promised  kisses.  With  that  came 
exclamations  on  the  part  of  her  dear  friends.  "  How 
imprudent!"  "But  this  is  serious!"  "What  an 
opinion  he  must  have  of  you!"  "  He  cannot  respect 
you,  since  you  do  not  respect  yourself!" 

Poor  Adèle  compared  what  her  friends  said  with 
warnings  that  her  mother  had  given  her.  "  Take 
care,"  that  lady  said.  "If  a  man  ever  tells  you  that 
he  loves  you,  and  you  are  so  weak  as  to  respond, 
it  will  not  be  long  before  he  ceases  to  esteem 
you." 

Oh!  could  it  be  because  she  loved  him  that  she 
would  forfeit  his  esteem?  He  must  despise  her. 
Yes,  it  was  true,  he  must  despise  her — and  to  be 
despised  by  him!  Oh!  that  was  terrible!  And  she 
asks  him  with  anguish,  "  Is  it  true?  Can  it  be  possi- 
ble that  you  despise  me?"  In  vain  he  protests, 
grows  indignant,  multiplies  his  vows,  brings  proofs 
of  his  devotion.  The  frightful  doubt  has  grown  into 
a  fixed  idea  ;  she  reverts  to  it  in  their  correspondence 
again  and  again. 

We  have  not  got  the  letters  in  which  she  questions 
him,  but  we  have  his  answers.  What  could  he  do  to 
convince  her?  It  is  not  only  esteem,  not  onlj'^  re- 
spect, it  is  worship  that  he  feels  for  her.  He  might 
almost  say  that  he  loves  her  on  his  knees.  To  press 
her  sometimes  in  his  arms,  to  obtain  the  promise  of 
her  kisses  (which  he  afterwards  allows  her  to  refuse 

_^  xvi 


Introduction 


him),  is  all  he  dares  to  claim  from  her,  is  all  that  he 
calls  happiness. 

Car  l'amant  à  l'époux  garde  sa  pureté.* 

We  may  be  permitted  to  think  that  the  lover  had 
some  merit,  for  at  sixteen,  besides  her  charm  of  youth, 
Adèle  was  singularly  lovely.  She  was  a  brunette, 
with  abundant  black  hair  and  arched  eyebrows, 
large,  bright,  soft  eyes,  a  straight,  delicate  nose,  and 
a  beautifully  formed  mouth,  with  a  sweet  expression. 
She  was  adorably  sweet,  adorably  handsome,  and 
he  adored  her.  He  placed  her  in  his  thoughts,  as 
it  were,  upon  an  altar.  His  budding  genius  bowed 
before  her  beauty  (both  were  divine  gifts)  humbly 
and  timidlj^  Some  day  she  might  be  his,  but  he 
hardly  dared  to  expect  it;  yet,  if  she  were  another 
mail's,  he  would  die — he  could  not  bear  it.  This  idea 
of  death  being  a  proof  of  love,  and  also  of  its  being 
its  sanction,  dwelt  in  his  imagination,  and  at  the  same 
time  it  impressed  itself  on  that  of  the  young  girl. 

Meantime  he  laid  all  he  had  and  all  he  was  at  her 
feet — under  her  feet,  it  would  be  more  correct  to  say. 
Never  do  his  letters  speak  to  her  of  his  writings,  of 
his  literary  successes,  or  of  his  growing  celebrity; 
or,  if  he  makes  any  allusion  to  these  things,  it  is 
only  to  repeat  that  all  is  for  her  sake  ;  that  all  is  hers  ; 
that  in  all  she  has  inspired  him.  The  letters  are 
solely  about  love;  they  speak  of  nothing  but  love; 
and  that  is  why  they  are,  and  always  will  be,  so  pure 
and  so  unique  an  example  of  the  ideal  of  love. 

*  Marion  Delorfoe. 
xvii 


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î  éUtTfttk^     at^éU   ,AS   /4UJ-  ^df9>«^ 


The  Love  Letters  of  Victor  Hugo 


1820 
Saturday  Evening,  January,  1820. 
A  few  words  from  you,  my  beloved  Adèle,  have 
again  changed  my  state  of  mind.  Yes,  you  can 
do  anything  with  me;  and  to-morrow,  were  I  even 
dead,  the  sweet  tones  of  your  voice,  the  tender  press- 
ure of  your  lips,  would  call  me  back  to  life  again. 
How  differently  I  shall  feel  as  I  go  to  sleep  to-night 
from  what  I  did  last  evening!  Yesterda}^  Adèle, 
all  confidence  in  the  future  had  abandoned  me;  I 
no  longer  believed  that  you  loved  me  ;  yesterday  the 
hour  of  my  death  would  have  been  welcome  to  me. 
And  yet  I  said  to  mj^self  :  "  If  it  is  quite  true  she  does 
not  love  me,  and  nothing  in  me  has  deserved  her 
love,  that  love  without  which  there  is  no  charm  left 
for  me  in  life,  is  that  any  reason  I  should  die?  Is 
it  for  my  own  personal  happiness  that  I  exist?  Oh 
no!  My  whole  existence  is  devoted  to  her,  shall  be 
hers  in  spite  of  herself.  And  by  what  right  have 
I  aspired  to  win  her  love?  Am  I  more  than  an  angel 
or  a  deity?  I  love  her,  it  is  true — I — even  I!  I  am 
ready  for  her  sake  to  sacrifice  everything  with  jo}^ — 
even  the  hope  that  she  may  love  me;  there  is  no 
A  I 


The   Love   Letters   of   J/ictor   Hugo 

limit  to  the  devotion  for  her  that  I  am  capable  of; 
for  one  of  her  looks,  for  one  of  her  smiles.  But 
could  I  do  otherwise?  Is  she  not  the  one  supreme 
object  in  my  life?  If  she  shows  me  indifference,  if 
she  even  hates  me,  it  will  be  my  misfortune — that 
is  all.  What  matter  can  it  be,  since  it  does  not  im- 
pair her  happiness?  Oh!  yes;  if  she  cannot  love 
me,  I  must  only  blame  myself.  My  duty  is  to  wait 
upon  her  steps,  to  envelop  her  existence  with  my  own, 
to  be  her  defence  against  all  perils,  to  offer  her  my 
head  to  set  her  foot  on,  even  to  place  myself  between 
her  and  every  sorrow,  without  making  any  claim 
for  myself — without  expecting  any  reward.  Too 
happy  if  from  time  to  time  she  deigns  to  bend  upon 
her  slave  a  look  of  pity,  and.  Oh  !  if  only  she  remem- 
bers me,  and  turns  to  me  in  a  moment  of  danger! 
Alas!  would  she  but  permit  me  to  give  my  life  that 
all  her  desires  might  be  accomplished,  all  her  ca- 
prices attained!  Would  she  but  permit  me  to  kiss 
with  devotion  and  respect  her  very  footsteps  ;  would 
she  but  consent  to  lean  upon  me  sometimes  in  life's 
difficult  places — then  I  should  have  obtained  the  only 
happiness  to  which  I  have  the  presumption  to  aspire. 
Because  I  am  ready  to  give  everything  up  for  her 
sake,  is  that  any  reason  she  should  owe  me  any 
gratitude?  Is  it  her  fault  that  I  love  her?  Must 
she  fancy  herself  constrained  because  of  that  to  love 
me?  No!  she  may  make  what  use  she  pleases  of 
my  devotion,  she  may  pay  me  with  hatred  for  my 
services,  she  may  scorn  my  idolatry,  she  may 
treat  me  with  contempt,  but  I  shall  have  no  right 
whatever  to  complain  of  such  an  angel,  nor  to  cease 

2 


The   Love   Letters    of   Victor  Hugo 

for  a  moment  to  lavish  on  her  the  care  that  she  dis- 
dains. And  when  each  one  of  mj'  daj's  shall  have 
been  marked  by  some  sacrifice  made,  for  her  sake, 
on  the  da3^  of  x\\y  death  I  shall  not  have  paid  all 
the  infinite  debt  that  my  existence  owes  to  hers." 

Such  were  my  thoughts  at  this  time  3^esterday, 
Adèle,  my  much  beloved,  and  such  were  the  resolu- 
tions of  my  soul.  They  are  the  same  to-day.  Only 
now  I  have  the  certainty  of  happiness,  of  a  happiness 
so  great  that  I  cannot  think  of  it  without  trembling, 
and  hardly  believe  it,  even  now. 

Then  is  it  true  you  love  me,  Adèle?  Tell  me, 
may  I  put  faith  in  that  most  ravishing  idea?  Does 
it  not  strike  you  that  I  might  become  mad  with  joy 
if  I  could  pass  my  whole  life  at  your  feet,  sure  of 
making  you  as  happy  as  I  should  be  m3'self;  sure 
of  being  adored  by  yo\x,  even  as  I  adore  yowl  Oh! 
your  letter  has  given  me  back  peace;  your  words 
this  evening  filled  me  with  happiness.  Receive  my 
thanks  a  thousand  times  ;  Adèle,  my  beloved  angel, 
I  should  like  to  kneel  before  j^ou  as  I  would  before 
a  divinity.  How  happy  you  have  made  me  !  Adieu, 
adieu!  I  shall  have  a  happy  night  dreaming  of 
you. 

Sleep  sweetly,  and  let  j'our  husband  take  the 
twelve  dear  kisses  that  yow  promised  him,  and  many 
more  for  which  you  have  not  yet  given  him  per- 
mission. 

Monday,    February   28th. 

I  .should  be  very  sorry,  my  Adèle,  to  give  vou  back, 
as  yesterday  evening  you  seemed  to  wish,  that  letter 
which,  in  spite  of  the  cruel  thoughts  with  which  it 

3 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

inspired  me,  has  grown  dear  to  me  because  it  proves 
to  me  you  love  me. 

It  is  with  joy  I  own  that  all  the  fault  was  on  my 
side,  and  it  is  with  most  sincere  repentance  that  I 
implore  you  to  forgive  me.  No,  my  Adèle,  it  is 
not  for  me  to  punish  you.  To  punish  you  !  —  for 
what?  Mine  is  but  the  right  to  defend  and  to  pro- 
tect you. 

Let  me  always  know  all  that  happens  to  you; 
tell  me  about  all  you  do,  and  what  you  think  of. 
And  here  I  have  a  little  thing  with  which  to  reproach 
you.  I  know  that  you  love  balls  ;  you  told  me  your- 
self, not  long  ago,  that  waltzing  was  for  you  a  great 
temptation.  Why,  then,  did  you  refuse  the  offer 
made  you  a  few  days  since?  Do  not  make  a  mistake. 
When,  for  your  sake,  I  gave  up  balls  and  evening 
parties,  it  was  merely  to  rid  myself  of  the  trouble 
of  going  to  them.  I  was  making  no  sacrifice.  It  is 
never  a  sacrifice  to  give  up  a  thing  which  does  not 
give  you  pleasure.  Now  I  have  no  pleasure  but  in 
seeing  you — in  being  near  j^ou.  But  in  your  case, 
since  dancing  amuses  you,  to  give  up  a  ball  is  a  real 
sacrifice.  I  am  very  grateful  for  your  intention  of 
making  it  for  me,  but  I  do  not  feel  willing  to  accept  it. 
I  am  indeed  excessively  jealous,  but  it  would  be  un- 
generous if  for  that  reason  I  deprived  3^ou  of  pleasures 
suited  to  your  age,  pleasures  which,  no  doubt,  I  could 
myself  enjoy,  if  you  were  not  all  in  all  to  me.  Go, 
then,  and  amuse  yourself  Go  to  the  ball,  and  in 
the  midst  of  it  do  not  forget  me.  I  dare  say  you  ma}^ 
see  other  men  more  charming,  more  gallant,  more 
brilliant  than  I  am;  but  I  venture  to  say  that  you 

4 


The    Love   Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

will  not  find  one  whose  tender  love  for  you  would 
be  so  pure  and  so  disinterested  as  mine. 

I  will  not  worr}^  you  with  my  personal  troubles; 
they  are  far  from  being  irremediable.  I  forget  them 
when  I  see  you  gay,  serene,  and  happy. 

Adieu!  Tell  me  ever^^thing,  either  by  word  of 
mouth  or  in  writing.  Courage,  prudence,  patience. 
Pra}''  the  good  God  to  grant  me  these  three  things, 
the  last  two  especiall}^,  for,  if  you  love  me,  I  am  safe 
to  have  the  other.  I  hope  you  will  not  cry  over  this 
letter.  As  for  me,  I  am  joyous  when  I  remember  you 
are  mine — for  you  are  mine,  are  you  not,  my  Adèle? 

In  spite  of  all  future  obstacles  that  may  present 
themselves,  I  feel  ready  to  cry  with  Charles  XII.  : 
"  What  God  has  given  me,  the  devil  himself  shall 
not  take  from  me!" 

Adieu,  forgive  me,  and  let  your  husband  fancy 

he  is  taking  one  of  the  ten  kisses  that  you  still  owe 

him. 

Thy  faithful 

Victor. 

March  20,  1820. 

Worried  and  hurried  on  all  sides,  I  write  a  few 
words  to  you  in  haste,  my  charming  Adèle,  and  I 
hope  that  our  conversation  and  the  proofs  of  entire 
confidence  I  gave  you  this  morning  have  calmed 
you  so  that  this  letter  may  not  be  needed  to  that  end. 
If  you  could  onh'  conceive  how  much  I  love  you,  you 
would  realize  how  high  you  stand  in  my  esteem. 
All  comes  to  this.  Tell  me  if  you  doubt  my  eternal, 
inviolable  attachment.  In  that  case,  what  would  j^ou 
have  me  do  to  prove  it?     Si)eak,  and  I  will  obey  you. 

5 


The   Love    Letters    of  Victor   Hugo 

I  think,  my  Adèle,  that  by  this  time  you  must  have 
been  reassured  as  to  what  concerns  me.  I  will  give 
you  every  mark  of  confidence  that  it  is  in  my  power 
to  offer  you,  and  I  faithfully  promise  that  I  will  tell 
you  everything  that  concerns  myself,  whether  it  can 
interest  you  or  no.  I  will  not  reproach  you  for  the 
reproaches  contained  in  your  letter.  I  thank  you, 
on  the  contrary,  for  having  let  me  know  all  your 
anxieties,  and  if  ever  you  suspect  anything  unfavor- 
able concerning  me,  I  think  it  will  be  your  duty  not 
to  hide  such  suspicions  from  me.  How  else  could  I 
justify  myself?  I  would  like,  my  love,  to  exhort  you 
to  patience,  but  that  word  sounds  badly  in  my  mouth. 
I  can  only  offer  you  the  consolation  in  your  troubles 
that  I  have  in  mine.  Is  it  any  compensation  that  I 
suffer  from  the  same  griefs  as  yourself?  But  in  this, 
my  Adèle,  I  speak  only  for  myself,  for  in  whatever 
situation  I  may  be,  I  can  never  be  very  unhappy  so 
long  as  I  believe  that  you  still  love  me. 

Adieu;  be  always  sure  of  my  esteem  and  my  re- 
spect. I  can  say  nothing  more,  except  that  I  wish 
you  would  think  as  much  good  of  me  as  I  do  of  you. 
You  see  I  say  the  same  things  over  and  over,  be- 
cause I  am  alwaj^s  thinking  the  same  things.  For- 
give me  all  this  talk,  which  I  am  keeping  up  as  long 
as  possible,  because  I  cannot  bear  to  say  adieu. 

But  adieu  at  last,  my  Adèle,  tout  à  toi. 

Your  Husband. 

Write  me  as  often  as  you  can,  and  burn  my  letters. 
I  think  prudence  requires  it.  Adieu!  adieu!  But, 
for  pity's  sake,  never  destroy  thine  own! 

6 


The   Love   Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

March  28,   1820. 

You  ask  me  for  a  few  words,  Adèle,  but  what  can 
I  tell  you  that  I  have  not  told  j^ou  a  thousand  and  a 
thousand  times?  Shall  I  say  over  again  how  much 
I  love  you?  But  expressions  fail  me.  .  .  .  To  tell 
you  that  I  love  you  better  than  my  life  would  be  a 
small  matter,  for  you  know  I  care  very  little  for  life. 
Well,  I  must!  .  .  .  for  I  tnust  ...  I  forbid  you, 
do  3' ou  hear?  to  say  anj^thing  more  to  me  about  my 
"contempt"  my  "ivant  of  esteem"  for  you.  You  will 
make  me  seriously  angry  if  you  force  me  to  repeat 
that  I  could  not  love  you  if  I  did  not  esteem  you. 
And  from  what,  if  you  please,  could  m3^  iva^it  of  es- 
teem, for  you  arise?  If  one  or  other  of  us  is  guilty,  it 
assuredly  is  not  my  Adèle.  But  I  am  afraid  you 
will  despise  me,  because  I  hope  you  know  the  purity 
of  my  love  for  j^ou.  I  am  your  husband,  or,  at  least, 
I  consider  myself  as  such.  You  only  can  make  me 
give  up  that  name. 

What  is  happening  to  you  in  your  home,  my 
dearest?  Do  they  torment  you?  Tell  me  every- 
thing. I  wish  my  life  in  any  way  could  assist 
you. 

Do  you  know  that  one  thought  makes  three-quar- 
ters of  my  happiness?  I  dream  that,  in  spite  of  all 
obstacles,  I  may  be  permitted  yet  to  be  your  husband, 
even  though  it  be  only  for  one  day.  Suppose  we 
were  married  to-morrow,  and  I  were  to  kill  mj^self  the 
next  da3^  I  should  have  been  happy  for  one  daj^,  and 
no  one  would  have  any  reason  to  reproach  you. 
You  would  be  mj'^  widow.  Would  it  not  be  possible, 
my  Adèle,  under  certain  circumstances,  to  arrange 

7 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

matters  thus?    One  day  of  happiness  is  worth  more 
than  a  Hfe  of  sorrow. 

Listen,  think  of  me,  my  love,  for  I  think  of  nothing 
but  you.  You  owe  me  that.  I  am  trying  to  become 
a  better  man  that  I  may  be  more  worthy  of  j^ou. 
If  you  only  knew  how  much  I  love  you!  .  .  ,  Ev- 
erything I  do  is  somehow  connected  with  you.  I  am 
working  solely  for  my  wife,  my  beloved  Adèle.  Love 
me  a  little  in  return. 

One  word  more.  Now  that  you  are  the  daughter 
of  General  Hugo,  do  nothing  unworthy  of  that  sta- 
tion, suffer  no  one  to  fail  in  proper  attention  and 
respect  to  you.  Mamma  is  very  particular  about 
such  things,  and  I  think  my  most  excellent  mother 
is  right.  You  will  fancy  I  have  suddenly  grown 
proud  of  my  social  rank,  just  as  you  thought  I  was 
proud  of  what  people  call  my  success;  and  yet,  my 
Adèle,  God  knows  that  there  is  only  one  thing  that 
could  make  me  proud,  and  that  is  to  be  loved  by  you. 

Adieu.  You  still  owe  me  eight  kisses,  and  I  fear 
you  will  forever  refuse  to  paj^  them. 

Adieu;  tout  à  toi,  rien  qu'à  toi. 

Early  in  April,  1820. 

It  was  on  the  26th  of  April,  181 9,  that  I  told  you 
that  I  loved  you.  It  is  not  quite  a  year  ago.  Then 
you  were  happy,  gay,  and  free  ;  perhaps  thoughts  of 
me  did  not  then  trouble  you.  How  many  dijBEiculties, 
how  many  torments  have  I  made  you  suffer  in  one 
year!  Oh!  for  how  many  things  you  have  to  par- 
don me! 

I  should  like  to  know  what  people  say  about  me. 


The   Love   Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

Have  a  little  more  confidence  in  your  husband.  I 
am  very  unhappy.  You  see,  my  love,  that  I  can 
hardly  put  two  ideas  together  ;  your  letter  has  dis- 
tressed me  cruellj^  I  have,  moreover,  so  many 
things  to  say  to  you,  and  so  little  time  in  which  to 
write.  How  will  all  these  things  end?  I  know 
pretty  well  how  they  will  end  for  me,  but  how  will 
it  be  for  you  .  .   .? 

Now  all  my  hopes,  all  my  desires,  are  concentrated 
only  on  you. 

I  wish  very  much  to  answer  everything  in  your 
letter.  How  could  you  dare  to  say  or  hint  that  I 
could  ever  forget  you?  Could  you  by  chance  have 
been  despising  me?  Tell  me  who  are  the  people 
who  talk  about  us?  I  am  furious!  You  do  not  feel, 
as  you  ought  to  feel,  how  much  better  you  are  in  all 
respects  than  those  around  you.  I  make  no  excep- 
tion of  those  young  girls,  your  pretended  friends, 
who  are  enough  to  make  the  angels  themselves  ac- 
count them  devils. 

Adieu,  my  Adèle,  I  see  I  am  in  no  fit  state  to  an- 
swer your  letter.  Excuse  my  bad  writing.  I  will 
write  the  rest  to-morrow — if  I  can. 

Tuesday,  April  i8, 1820. 
I  am  wretched,  my  beloved  Adèle,  to  know  that  you 
are  ill  ;  and  if  the  ideas  you  have  been  forming  about 
me  have  helped  to  make  you  so,  I  assuredly  do  not 
know  how  I  can  undeceive  you.  I  asked  you  to  tell 
me  who  were  the  gossips  who  had  given  you  a  bad 
opinion  of  me;  j^ou  would  not  answer  me,  because, 
unhappily,  it  is  possible  you  may  have  believed  them. 

9 


The    Love   Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

...  I  further  asked  you  to  tell  me  of  what  faults 
they  accused  me,  that  I  might  correct  them  if  what 
they  said  was  just,  or  defend  myself  if  they  were 
false,  and  on  this  point  also  you  have  not  thought 
fit  to  satisfy  me.  What  do  they  say  about  me? 
Whatever  it  is,  it  is  probably  not  favorable,  either 
to  my  conduct  or  my  character,  and  yet  I  take  God 
to  witness  that  I  wish  you  knew  all  my  actions  with- 
out exception.  I  should  then  have  little  to  fear  from 
the  silly  chatter  of  your  friends,  and  I  believe  you 
would  think  better  of  me  than  you  do  now.  As  it 
is  quite  possible  that  some  one  may  have  told  you 
I  was  full  of  self-conceit,  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  I 
am  not  saying  this  from  vanity. 

You  accuse  me  vaguely  of  certain  things.  You 
say  I  seem  embarrassed  when  I  am  with  you.  It  is 
true.  I  am  so,  but  it  is  because  I  would  so  gladly 
be  always  alone  with  you,  and  am  annoyed  by  the 
inquisitive  glances  of  people  around  me.  You  add 
that  "I  seem  to  feel  ennui  when  with  you."  If  you 
think  me  a  liar,  it  would  be  useless  to  tell  you  over 
again  that  my  only  happy  moments  are  those  that 
I  am  able  to  spend  with  you. 

And  yet,  my  Adèle,  in  connection  with  these  ideas, 
it  may  be  right  to  tell  you  that  the  time  may  be  at 
hand  when  I  shall  have  to  give  up  this  last  and  only 
pleasure.  Your  parents  look  upon  me  with  dislike, 
and  assuredly  they  have  good  reason  to  complain  of 
me.  I  acknowledge  the  wrongs  I  have  committed 
against  them — or  rather  the  one  wrong  I  have  done 
them,  for  there  is  only  one,  and  that  is,  I  have  loved 
you.     You  must  feel  that  I  cannot  continue  to  visit 

10 


The   Love    Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

in  a  house  whose  master  and  mistress  do  not  Hke  to 
see  me,  I  write  you  this  with  tears  falhng  from  my 
eyes,  and  I  blush  Uke  a  conceited  fool,  as  I  am. 

Whatever  may  happen,  accept  my  inviolable  prom- 
ise to  have  no  other  wife  but  you,  and  to  become  your 
husband  as  soon  as  it  may  be  in  my  power.  Burn 
all  my  other  letters,  but  keep  this  one.  They  may 
part  us,  but  I  am  yours — yours  for  eternity.  I  am 
yours — your  property,  your  slave.  Do  not  forget 
that.  You  may  always  make  use  of  me  as  if  I  were 
a  thing  and  not  a  person.  Wherever  I  may  be,  near 
or  far,  write  to  me  and  tell  me  what  I  am  to  do  for 
you.     I  will  obey  you  or  die. 

This  is  what  I  want  to  say  to  you  before  I  cease 
to  see  you,  that  you  may  at  all  times  point  out  the 
way  in  which  you  think  I  could  serve  you,  if  you 
think  proper  to  keep  up  any  relations  with  me.  Yes, 
my  Adèle,  I  foresee  I  must  soon  give  up  all  meetings 
with  you.     Encourage  me  a  little.  .  .  , 

I  am  constantly  engaged  in  bitter  reflections. 
Since  you  have  loved  me  you  have  learned  to  think 
yourself  less-  estimable  (that  was  your  own  word), 
and  I,  from  day  to  day  since  I  loved  you,  find  myself 
growing  better.  It  is  because,  dear  Adèle,  I  owe 
everything  to  you.  It  is  the  wish  to  make  myself 
worthy  of  you  which  makes  me  conscious  of  my  faults. 
I  owe  everything  to  you.  I  love  to  repeat  this.  If 
I  have  always  kept  myself  free  from  the  excesses 
sadly  too  common  among  young  men  of  my  age,  it 
was  not  because  I  have  had  no  opportunities  to  go 
astray,  but  thoughts  of  you  have  protected  me. 
Thanks  to  j^ou,  I  have  kept  unstained  the  onh'  things 

II 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor  Hugo 

that  I  can  offer  you,  a  body  pure,  and  an  unsullied 
heart.  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  said  all  this, 
but  you  are  my  wife  ;  this  will  prove  that  I  have  hid- 
den nothing  from  you,  and  how  great  is  the  influence 
you  exert,  and  always  will  exert,  upon  your  faithful 
husband, 

V.  M.  Hugo. 


The  fears  and  sad  forebodings  that  the  letter  of  April 
1 8th  expressed  were  soon  to  be  realized — more  than 
realized — by  what  took  place.  All  intercourse  between 
the  lovers  was  suddenly  put  an  end  to  for  some  months. 

Had  Victor  been  imprudent?  Had  he  made  his  ap- 
pearance too  often  at  the  house,  or  in  the  garden,  of 
the  girl  he  loved?  At  all  events,  the  vigilance  of 
Mme.  Foucher  being  aroused,  she  took  the  alarm,  and 
warned  her  husband  of  what  was  taking  place.  M. 
Foucher  was  not  willing  to  remain  in  uncertainty.  If 
Victor's  mother  had  not  the  least  suspicion,  what  would 
she  think  of  the  conduct  of  her  son?  He  was  resolved 
to  know  at  once. 

M.  Foucher  himself  might  easily  have  been  disposed 
to  look  not  unfavorably  on  Victor's  attachment  to  his 
daughter.  But  in  any  case  there  could  be  no  question 
about  allowing  them  to  marry  at  their  age  ;  yet  they 
might  be  separated  for  a  time;  they  might  wait  and 
prove  their  constancy. 

M.  Foucher,  chief  clerk  in  the  War  Office,  was  a  man 
held  by  all  who  knew  him  in  high  esteem  ;  he  wore  the 
ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  was  in  every  re- 
spect an  honorable  man  ;  but  he  had  three  children  ; 
he  had  only  his  salary  to  live  upon,  and  his  daugh- 
ter would  have  no  dot  on  her  marriage.  Victor's 
worldly  prospects  were  even  less  promising.  To  be 
sure,  he  was  the  son  of  General  Hugo,  and  generals  of 
the  Empire,  even  among  Royalists,  do  not  seem,  in  1821, 
to  have  lost  their  prestige.  Furthermore,  M.  Foucher 
was  a  great  reader  ;  he  knew  more  about  literature  than 
he  cared  to  show.  He  was  quite  able  to  appreciate  Vic- 
tor's talent,  and  to  foresee  his  future  career.     He  knew 

12 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

what  Chateaubriand  had  said  about  him,  and  how 
Alexandre  Soumet  had  written  a  letter  on  the  part  of 
the  Académie  des  Jeux  Floraux,  congratulating  the 
young  poet  on  "  the  prodigious  hopes  he  held  out  to 
French  literature."  M.  Foucher  possibly  thought  his 
old  friend  Mme.  Hugo  might  not  show  herself  alto- 
gether averse  to  the  marriage.  But  all  must  be  straight- 
forward and  above  board  between  them.  He  would  go, 
therefore,  and  talk  to  her. 

Victor  knew  his  mother  too  well  to  feel  anything  but 
dread  of  such  an  interview. 

The  wife  of  General  Hugo  was  the  dearly  beloved 
mother  of  her  three  sons,  but  she  was  greatly  feared 
by  them.  She  loved  them  tenderly,  but  she  managed 
them  roughly.  She  was  the  only  parent  who  had  had 
charge  of  the  three  boys,  for  General  Hugo  had  at  that 
time  almost  separated  himself  from  his  wife  and  sons. 
He  had  another  domestic  establishment,  and  the  only 
connection  he  still  kept  up  with  his  famity  was  to  pay 
a  small  sum  annually  for  their  support,  which  was 
very  insufficient  for  their  needs.  Mme.  Hugo,  an  arbi- 
trary woman  by  nature,  kept  a  very  tight  hold  on  the 
conduct  of  her  sons.  Her  system  was  to  leave  them 
wholly  free  in  all  that  concerned  their  intellectual  prog- 
ress, but  to  require  from  them  in  everything  that  con- 
cerned their  conduct  the  most  absolute  obedience  to 
her  will.  When  the  parents  of  Adèle  should  startle 
her  by  their  surprising  revelation,  what  would  she  do? 
Victor  foresaw  too  well  what  sentence  she  would  pass 
on  him.  He  felt  already  he  was  bound  and  subjugated 
to  her  maternal  will,  both  because  he  feared  and  be- 
cause he  loved  his  mother. 

It  was  well  known  that  he  owed  her  twice  over  his 
life;  that  he  came  into  the  world  .so  frail  and  delicate 
that  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  not  a  àsiy  to  live,  and  before 
he  could  grow  well  and  strong  he  had  long  been  weak 
and  ailing.  We  have  his  own  lines  concerning  it  in 
his  Feuilles  d'Automne: — 

...  Je  dirai.s  peut-être  quelque  jour, 
Quel  lait  pur,  que  de  soins,  que  de  vœux,  que  d'amour 
Prodigués  à  ma  vie,  en  naissant  condamnée, 
M'ont  fait  deux  fois  l'enfant  de  ma  mère  obstinée. 

13 


The   Love   Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

And  the  mother's  love  for  the  son  whom  she  had 
saved  was  augmented  by  pride  in  his  talents,  when, 
as  he  grew  in  strength,  she  found  him  growing  in 
ability.  But  the  more  she  thought  of  him  the  more 
she  exacted  of  him.  She  wanted  him  all  for  herself. 
Victor  was  well  aware  of  this,  and  his  heart  throbbed 
with  anguish  when  one  morning  he  saw  M.  and  Mme. 
Foucher  come  to  his  mother's  house  and  heard  them 
ask  for  a  private  interview. 

This  happened  on  April  26,  1820,  just  one  year  after 
the  day  when  Victor  had  for  the  first  time  told  Adèle 
that  he  loved  her — April  26,  1819. 

At  first  Mme.  Hugo  was  stupefied  by  what  they  told 
her.  Was  it  conceivable?  Was  it  possible?  Victor, 
who  so  short  a  time  before  had  been  a  baby  clinging 
to  her  skirts,  Victor  in  love? — in  love  for  months?  He 
could  not  be  in  earnest!  But  it  was  serious.  She 
knew  her  son.  She  knew  his  ardent  nature,  and  she 
felt  that  keen  pang — a  mother's  jealousy.  Her  son 
could  love,  and  he  did  love,  another  better  than  herself, 
and  that  other  was  a  young  girl — almost  a  child  !  And, 
after  all,  who  was  she  that  had  stolen  from  her  the  love 
of  her  own  son  ?  Here  came  in  a  mother's  pride.  Victor 
was  the  son  of  General  Count  Hugo  ;  Victor  had  already 
acquired  some  celebrity,  and  before  long  he  might  see 
fame  before  him  ;  then  why  might  he  not  aspire  to 
make  one  of  the  very  best,  the  richest,  matches? — and 
meantime  he  was  making  silly  love  to  the  daughter  of 
a  clerk  in  the  War  Office,  a  girl  without  family  or  fort- 
une! 

If  Mme.  Hugo  had  been  prepared  for  the  blow  she 
was  about  to  receive,  she  would  assuredly  have  softened 
the  expression  of  her  sentiments  to  M.  and  Mme. 
Foucher  ;  but,  taken  as  she  was  by  surprise,  she  put 
no  curb  on  her  tongue.  Now  or  hereafter  such  a  mar- 
riage was  impossible!  Never — never — as  long  as  she 
lived,  should  such  a  marriage  take  place! 

M.  Foucher,  whose  paternal  feelings  were  naturally 
much  hurt,  replied  coldly.  It  was  settled  that  the  two 
families  should  at  once  cease  to  see  each  other,  that  all 
intercourse  between  them  should  be  broken  off.  It  was 
more  than  mere  separation — it  was  an  absolute  quarrel. 

They  sent  for  Victor  to  tell  him  their  decision.     He 

14 


The   Love   Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

had  had  time  to  collect  hivS  strength  and  to  arm  himself 
with  courage.  He  felt  that  he  must  show  himself  to 
be  a  man  !  It  is  strange,  but  he  was  not  angry  with  his 
mother.  It  was  his  nature  to  find  excuses  for  those  he 
loved  ;  but  this  father,  who  said  it  was  his  duty  to  watch 
over  the  purity  of  his  daughter,  a  purity  that  Victor 
knew  had  never  been  in  peril,  seemed  to  him  despotic 
and  unjust.  He  subsequently  wrote  to  Adèle  :  "  Your 
father  had  no  right  to  peer  into  a  secret  which  belongs 
to  us  alone."  He  made  up  his  mind,  therefore,  to  as- 
sume a  lofty  attitude  before  this  tyrant.  He  boldly  con- 
fessed his  love,  and  then  listened  to  the  sentence  which 
shut  him  out  from  Paradise,  without  change  of  coun- 
tenance. Only  when  Adèle's  father  and  mother  were 
gone,  when  he  was  alone  with  his  own  parent,  the 
man  disappeared,  the  child  returned,  and  he  burst  into 
tears.  His  mother,  much  afflicted  by  the  suffering  of 
her  beloved  son,  tried  to  console  him.  But  he  rushed 
away,  and  shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber,  where  he 
wept  and  wept  until  he  could  weep  no  more.  He  must 
have  wept  like  Jephthah's  daughter,  and  doubtless  for 
the  same  reason.  Adèle  was  lost  to  him  ;  what  remained 
for  him  but  death? 

M.  and  Madame  Foucher  when  they  returned  home 
seem  to  have  avoided  any  clear  explanation  with  their 
daughter  as  to  the  step  that  they  had  just  taken.  They 
only  told  her  that  all  intercourse  with  the  wife  of  General 
Hugo  was  broken  off,  that  she  would  cease  to  see  any 
of  the  family. 

And  Victor?  Victor  would  not  return.  He  refused 
to  come  back.  That  was  all  they  said,  and  it  left  poor 
Adèle  a  prey  to  the  most  harrowing  conjectures.  Did 
Victor  no  longer  love  her?  She  refused  to  believe  this, 
but  she  saw  days,  weeks,  and  months  pass,  in  which 
she  received  no  news  of  him.  Her  parents  tried  to 
make  her  forget  her  grief  by  receptions,  visits,  and  lit- 
tle parties. 

As  she  was  very  young  and  gay,  she  let  them  do 
with  her  what  they  would,  and  entered  into  these  gay- 
eties.  There  was  even  something  planned  about  an- 
other marriage.  We  would  wish  to  think  that  she  con- 
sented to  all  this  as  a  mere  blind.  For  could  she  have 
wholly  despaired  when  she  read  and  reread  Victor's  letters, 

15 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor  Hugo 

with  their  ardent  promises,  their  sacred  vows?  It  seems 
unhkely  that  she  did  not  read  them,  since  we  know  she 
kept  them  carefully. 

As  for  him,  after  his  deluge  of  tears  he  recovered  his 
energy  and  courage.  Should  he  die?  Of  what  use  was  it 
to  die?  Had  he  not  devoted  to  her  his  life  and  love? 
He  was  bound  to  live.  His  mother  might  exact  of  him 
a  promise  that  he  would  not  see  Adèle,  but  she  could 
not  obtain,  she  never  would  obtain,  a  promise  that  he 
would  cease  to  love  her.  To  win  her  for  his  wife, 
even  if  he  had  to  do  it  in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  his 
mother,  was  his  fixed  purpose  in  life.  He  remembered 
the  strong  assurance  which,  with  a  singular  presenti- 
ment, he  had  put  into  his  last  letter,  signing  it  as  he  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  signing  those  letters,  with  his  full 
name: 

"  Receive  this,  my  inviolable  promise,  that  I  will  have  no  other 
wife  but  thee.  .  .  .  They  may  possibly  separate  us,  but  I  am 
thine— thine  eternally  I — V.  M.  HUGO." 

How  could  he  keep  this  promise?  Only  in  one  way, 
by  work.  Work  only  could  bring  him  independence, 
and  permit  him — we  must  say  it  frankly — to  earn 
money  enough  to  make  his  mother  more  comfortable  in 
the  first  place,  and  then  to  give  Adèle's  father  a  suffi- 
cient assurance  that  he  was  in  a  position  to  support  a 
wife.  He  set  to  work,  to  use  his  own  expression,  "  with 
the  courage  of  a  lion."  And  thus  began  that  indefat- 
igable toil  which  lasted  during  his  whole  life  ;  the  forge, 
once  lighted,  was  never  to  go  out. 

In  the  month  of  December,  1819,  Victor  had  founded, 
in  connection  with  his  brother  Abel,  in  hopes  of  helping 
their  mother,  whose  allowance  from  her  husband  was 
very  small,  a  semi-monthly  magazine,  Le  Conserva- 
teur Littéraire.  Victor  had  undertaken  the  greater  part 
of  the  work  in  the  first  numbers  ;  but  after  the  month  of 
April  he  redoubled  his  zeal  and  activity.  Le  Conser- 
vateur Littéraire  lasted  fifteen  months.  Of  the  three 
large  volumes  which  now  contain  it,  Victor,  under  eight 
or  ten  signatures,  certainly  wrote  two  of  them.  The 
young  journalist  gives  an  account  of  everj^thing  that 
would  interest  the  world  of  letters — books,  poems,  and 
dramas.     He  speaks  with  a  wonderful  maturity  of  judg- 

16 


The   Love   Letters   of  Victor    Hugo 

ment  of  the  works  of  Chateaubriand,  André  Chénier, 
of  Lamennais,  and  Mme.  Desbordes- Vahnore,  of  the 
Marie  Stuart  of  Lebrun,  and  of  the  Vêpres  Siciliennes 
of  Casimir  Delà  vigne.  While  all  this  time  he  was  try- 
ing to  write  a  novel,  the  first  version  of  Bug-Jargal. 

But  the  great  object  of  Le  Conservateur  Littéraire 
was  to  do  battle  for  the  cause  of  monarchy.  Le  Con- 
servateur, the  great  political  review  of  Chateaubriand, 
Lamennais,  and  Bonald,  had  just  ceased  to  appear. 
As  there  was  no  line-of-battle  ship  in  action,  the  little 
sloop  bravely  fought  on.  Victor  put  into  his  work  all 
the  ardor  inspired  by  his  love  for  his  "  Vendean  mother." 
His  first  poems  were  his  Royalist  odes.  La  Vendée,  La 
Mort  du  Duc  de  Berry,  Le  Rétablissement  de  la  Statue  de 
Henri  IV .,  etc.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  sincere 
than  his  enthusiasm,  nothing  more  disinterested.  A 
sad  note  in  Le  Conservateur  Littéraire  gives  us  to  un- 
derstand that  the  official  encouragement  and  material 
aid  given  to  other  Royalist  publications  were  denied  to 
these  devoted  young  champions.  Never  mind  !  their  zeal 
in  the  cause  of  monarchy  would  be  the  same. 

Meantime  this  work,  which  hardly  could  fill  all  his 
time  and  thoughts,  left  poor  Victor's  heart  empty.  He 
never  ceased  to  think  of  Adèle,  but  he  had  no  one  he  could 
talk  to  about  her.  It  was  then  that  he  began  to  write  a 
novel,  Han  d'Islande,  which  might  serve  him  as  a  con- 
fidant in  his  grief  and  loneliness.  In  it  he  called  Adèle 
Ethel,  and  Victor,  under  the  name  of  Ordner,  addressed 
to  her,  on  paper,  all  the  loving  words  he  could  no  longer 
speak  or  write  to  her.  Only  until  the  book  should  be 
finished  and  publivshed  she  could  not  read  or  hear  them. 
Then  Victor  thought  of  Le  Conservateur  Littéraire. 

M.  Foucher  took  the  review,  and  he  could  hardly 
keep  Adèle  from  seeing  it.  Among  Victor's  numer- 
ous literary  activities,  we  have  omitted  to  say  that 
he  found  in  an  old  chronicle  of  the  fifteenth  century 
the  story  of  a  young  poet,  a  disciple  of  Petrarch,  called 
Raymond  d'Ascoli,  w^ho,  parted  from  her  he  loved, 
preferred  death.  Victor  composed  an  elegy  on  this 
young  suicide,  which  he  called  Le  Jeune  Banni,  and 
in  his  position  of  editor-in-chief  inserted  it  in  the  July 
number  of  Le  Conservateur  Littéraire  of  1820.  It  may 
have  been  at  this  time  that  there  was  talk  of  another 
B  17 


The   Love   Letters   of  Victor   Hugo 

suitor  for  the  hand  of  Adèle.  Raymond  d'Ascoh  writes 
thus  to  his  love — and  Adèle  with  a  beating  heart  might 
read  the  verses  (not  very  good  as  poetry,  but  was  she 
likely  to  mark  that?)  : 

Bientôt  ...  lis  sans  retard,  ô  vierge  adorée, 
Ce  que  trace  ma  main  par  mes  pleurs  égarée. 

J'ose  t'ecrirel     Hélas,  à  nos  ardeurs  naissantes 
Qu'eut  servi  jusqu'ici  ce  pénible  secours! 

Hier  ...  Te  souvient-t-il  fille  douce  et  modeste 

De  cet  hier  déjà  si  loin  de  moi? 
Je  souriais,  l'amour  veillait  seul  avec  nous; 

Et  toi,   dans  ta  gaîté  naïve 

Tu  m'appelais  ton  jeune  époux» 

Hélas!  oui,  tu  verras,  rougissante,  étonnée. 
Un  plus  heureux  hâter  ton  rêve  matinal, 
Et  saisissant  ta  main  dans  sa  main  fortunée 
Te  conduire  au  lieu  saint  .  .   . 
Et  puis  il  cachera  ton  bandeau  virginal 

Sous   la   couronne   d.'hymenée! 

Un  autre  I — ô  douleur  !  ô  tourment  ! 
Je  t'aimais  sans  délire,  et  je  t'aime  avec  rage! 
Mon  Emma,  songe  à  moi!  respecte  ton  serment! 

Adèle  respected  her  vows,  and  Victor  had  given  her 
this  sign  of  life  ;  so  far  well.  But  he  had  not  been  able 
at  the  same  time  to  avoid  the  risk  of  afflicting  and  offend- 
ing his  mother,  which  he  dreaded  beyond  everything. 
It  is  clear  that  Mme.  Hugo,  as  well  as  Adèle,  saw  a 
transparent  meaning  in  this  poetry,  and  it  is  certain 
that  a  scene  of  tears  and  reproaches  followed,  and  the 
cruel  separation  was  made  more  bitter  and  complete 
for  the  two  lovers.  But  once  more  the  blessed  Conser- 
vateur Littéraire  became  the  means  of  ameliorating  their 
condition. 

M.  Foucher,  who  was,  as  we  have  said,  head  clerk 
in  the  War  Office,  chanced  to  publish  about  this  time 
a  volume  called  Manuel  du  Recrutement,  a  technical 
book  on  an  especial  subject,  which  assuredly  had  no  lit- 
erary pretensions.  But  the  young  lover  did  not  think 
so  ;  he  hastened  to  write  a  review  of  it  in  Le  Conserva- 
it 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor  Hugo 

teur  Littéraire,  though  the  work  could  hardly  be  called 
literary.  The  review  was  very  laudatory,  for  the  book 
was  written  by  the  father  of  Adèle.  To  praise  the  work 
of  an  old  friend  who  was  master  of  the  subject  of  re- 
cruiting could  not  be  reprehensible,  and  Mme.  Hugo 
found  nothing  to  say  against  it. 

The  article  pleased  M.  Foucher,  no  doubt,  but,  in- 
trenched still  in  his  dignity,  he  kept  silence.  Then 
Providence  took  the  matter  in  hand,  and  happily  at 
this  very  time  gave  France  the  royal  infant  she  was 
eagerly  looking  for — the  Due  de  Bordeaux,  "  l'enfant  du 
■miracle." 

At  once  Victor  composed  an  ode  on  the  occasion  ;  he 
inserted  it  in  Le  Conservateur  Littéraire,  and  afterwards 
had  it  printed  in  a  little  pamphlet,  which  pamphlet 
he  sent  to  M.  Foucher,  with  a  dedication,  of  which  we 
may  be  sure  he  carefully  chose  the  words.  This  time 
kind  M.  Foucher  could  not  refuse  to  make  some  ac- 
knowledgment, without  failing  in  the  first  principles 
of  courtesy,  and  perhaps  he  was  not  sorry  that  it  be- 
came his  duty  to  be  polite.  However,  he  did  not  write 
to  Victor,  but  to  Mme.  Hugo  he  addressed  the  following 
letter  : 

Paris,  October  13,  1820. 

Madame,— I  have  to  thank  M.  V.  Hugo  for  his 
flattering  article  on  the  Manuel  du  Recrutement.  I 
have  also  thanks  to  give  him  for  sending  me  as  a 
present  a  copy  of  his  ode  on  the  birth  of  the  Due  de 
Bordeaux.  My  wife  is  a  sharer  in  my  debt,  for  she 
has  taken  half  the  pleasure  we  have  had  in  this  poem. 

Passages  such  as  "  tel  un  fleure  mystérieux  "  and 
"  oui,  souris  orphelin,  "  went  to  the  hearts  of  an  audi- 
ence which  is  not  especiall}^  poetical.  As  you  know, 
none  of  us  are  good  judges  of  poems. 

I  propose  to  call  on  these  gentlemen,  and  to  point 
out  to  them  certain  books  which  will  ofïer  a  large 
field  for  criticism.     I  shall  see  them  shortly,  and 

19 


The   Love    Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

renew  to  you,  madame,  assurances  of  my  respectful 
and  sincere  attachment. 

Your  very  humble  and  obedient  servant, 

P.    FOUCHER. 

This  was  a  little  renewal  of  friendly  intercourse,  and 
Victor  must  have  been  delighted  to  receive  a  visit,  were 
it  only  business-like  and  commonplace,  from  Adèle's 
father.  But  Adèle — Adèle  herself — should  he  never  see 
her  again?  What  was  she  doing?  What  did  she  think 
of?  Did  she  suffer  as  he  suffered?  Had  she  forgotten 
him?  Could  she  love  him  still?  It  did  not  seem  possible 
that  vshe,  who  filled  all  his  life,  and  all  his  thoughts, 
should  live  only  a  few  j^ards  from  him,  and  yet  that 
they  should  be  as  strangers. 

Adèle  at  that  time  was  taking  lessons  in  drawing 
from  a  friend.  Mademoiselle  Duvidal,  and  Victor  knew 
that  Adèle  almost  every  morning  walked  to  her  house 
alone.  At  the  beginning  of  1821  he  took  a  great  re- 
solution ;  he  went  one  morning  and  a  little  distance  from 
her  home  ventured  to  accost  her.  After  this  she  accepted 
and  wrote  notes  which  expanded  into  letters. 

These  letters  were  tender  at  first,  but  before  long  they 
became  anxious  and  sometimes  showed  vexation.  They 
had  seen  each  other  once  more,  and  that  was  a  great  gain  ; 
but  they  could  only  meet  in  the  street,  and  that  involved 
great  peril.  Adèle  soon  perceived  the  risk  she  ran. 
She  tried  to  put  an  end  to  these  walks.  Victor,  in  de- 
spair, grew  angry.  Then  they  were  resumed,  but  Adèle 
contrived  to  make  them  fewer  month  after  month.  A 
stranger  circumstance  was  soon  to  end  them  altogether. 


1821 

March 

Saturday  {early  in  March.  1821). 

Your  last  letter  was  very  short,  Adèle.     You  only 
let  me  see  you  for  a  few  moments  ;  you  only  sent  me 

20 


The  Love   Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

a  few  words.  What  does  this  mean,  unless  that  the 
sight  of  me  is  unwelcome,  and  that  writing  to  me  bores 
you?  Nevertheless,  Adèle,  I  will  not  worry  myself 
over  this  thought  which  makes  me  wretched.  I  shall 
try  to  believe  that  if  you  endeavor  to  abridge  the  few 
moments  we  can  pass  together,  it  is  only  because 
you  are  afraid  to  be  seen  with  your  husband,  and 
that  when  you  persist  in  writing  to  me  so  briefly 
you  have  reasons  for  that  also,  reasons  that  indeed 
I  cannot  guess,  but  that  I  shall  not  the  less  respect. 
I  wish  to  trust  you  in  all  things — or  what  would 
become  of  me? 

When  you  seem  to  me  to  be  cold  or  dissatisfied 
I  pass  hours  turning  over  in  my  mind  all  kinds  of 
motives,  some  of  which  may  be  true  ones,  but  which 
would  drive  me  to  despair  if  I  knew  them  to  be  so. 
No,  my  Adèle,  in  spite  of  the  fears  that  torment  me 
sometimes,  when  you  meet  me  with  apparent  repug- 
nance, or  flit  away  from  me  with  too  much  haste, 
I  trust  you  blindly,  and  never,  save  in  the  last  ex- 
tremity, will  I  allow  myself  to  believe  that  I  have 
lost  your  love.  For  all  the  plans  of  my  life  are  found- 
ed on  my  belief  in  your  constancy,  and  if  this  should 
fail  me,  where  should  I  be? 

You  ask  me  again  and  again  a  question  that  is 
very  natural,  and  yet  it  gives  me  pain,  because  it 
shows  that  you  have  strange  doubts  of  me.  You 
tell  me  it  was  I  who  gave  up  going  to  your  house 
a  year  ago.  I  have  always  ver3^  much  regretted, 
Adèle,  that  you  were  not  present  when  that  pre- 
tended refusal  took  place.  You  might  have  judged 
for  yourself  whether  it  was  possible  for  a  man  to 

21 


The  Love   Letters    of  Victor  Hugo 

act  otherwise  than  I  did,  and  perhaps  you  would  now 
have  a  higher  opinion  of  me  than  you  have  to-day; 
but  you  were  not  present,  and  I  will  not  reproach  you 
for  anything.  However,  any  one  who  had  confidence 
in  me  would  be  disposed  to  believe,  even  without  hav- 
ing heard  what  passed,  that  if  I  accepted  so  great  a 
misfortune,  it  was  because  I  could  not  have  done  oth- 
erwise. I  cannot  demand  so  much  of  you.  It  is  one 
of  my  strongest  motives  for  wishing  to  have  a  few 
quiet  moments'  talk  with  you  that  I  hope  to  destroy 
all  those  prejudices  with  which  others  have  inspired 
you  against  your  husband.  Letters  will  not  do  this, 
because  as  you  read  them  you  make  in  your  own 
mind  answers  to  what  I  write,  and  I  am  not  there  to 
reply. 

How  much  easier  it  is  for  you,  Adèle,  to  justify 
yourself  in  my  sight!  All  you  need  do  is  to  tell  me 
that  you  love  me,  and  then  all  is  forgotten. 

You  tell  me  that  you  cannot  help  thinking  that  if 
I  do  not  try  to  come  back  to  your  house,  it  is  because 
I  fancy  it  would  be  impossible.  Adèle,  my  dear 
Adèle,  if  you  think  I  may,  point  out  to  me  any  hon- 
orable means  by  which  I  can  come,  and  I  shall  be  too 
happy  to  attempt  it.  I  should  be  so  happy  to  see 
you  again  with  the  consent  of  your  parents,  to  pass 
my  evenings  beside  you,  to  accompany  you  in  your 
walks,  to  attend  you  everj^where,  to  fulfil  all  your 
wishes.  Can  you  conceive  with  what  joy  I  should 
exchange  my  constant  solitude  for  so  much  happi- 
ness? 

The  great  obstacle  is  the  breach  between  our  fam- 
ilies.    Our  parents  have  quarrelled  ;  I  do  not  clearly 

22 


The   Love   Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

——  ■   ■-  '    I       ■■■■■'  I  ■.■■■■  ■  jtA 

know  for  what,*  and  it  seems  to  me  now  very  diffi- 
cult, even  impossible,  to  bring  them  again  together. 
See,  reflect,  perhaps  you  will  at  last  end  by  once  more 
deciding  ive  must  wait.  It  is  that  thought  which 
drives  me  to  despair.  It  is  that  which  makes  me  hope 
before  long  to  be  so  independent  by  my  own  exer- 
tions that  I  can  take  my  own  way,  and  my  people 
will  not  be  able  to  refuse  it  to  me.  Then,  my  Adèle, 
you  will  be  mine,  and  I  trust  the  time  is  not  far  off. 
I  only  work,  I  only  live,  for  that  day.  You  cannot 
conceive  with  what  jo37ful  emotion  I  write  those 
words,  you  will  he  mine  —  I,  who  would  give  my 
whole  life  for  a  year,  for  a  month,  of  happiness  passed 
with  you  as  my  wife. 

I  make  no  reply  to  what  you  say  about  my  "  con- 
tempt," etc.  How  could  you  write  it?  If  you  had  a 
little  esteem  for  me,  could  you  believe  me  capable 
of  loving  a  being  I  despised?  Appreciate  yourself 
more  fully.  Consider  how  much  you  are  above  all 
other  women  in  character,  mind,  and  heart — they  axe 
false  and  coquettish.  Why  should  I  not,  my  Adèle, 
have  the  highest  esteem  for  you?  If  my  heart  and 
my  conduct  have  been  always  earnest  and  pure,  it 
is  because  I  thought  of  you;  it  was  because  I  was 
firmly  resolved  to  remain  worthy  of  you — this  has 
protected  me.  Adèle,  you  whom  I  have  always  seen 
so  noble,  so  modest,  do  not  think  yourself  guilty 
of  any  fault,  I  implore  you.  If  you  do,  I  shall  con- 
sider myself  a  rascal  ;  and  yet  I  have  committed  no 
fault  but  that  of  loving  you — if  you  think  that  to 
be  one. 

*  He  knows  very  well,  but  he  will  not  accuse  his  mother, 
23 


The    Love    Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

Believe  me,  Adèle,  if  you  love  me,  it  may  be  a  mis- 
fortune (for  you,  though  not  for  me),  but  it  can  never 
be  a  crime.  There  is  nothing  but  the  tender  love 
I  feel  for  you  which  can  equal  my  respect. 

Adieu,  my  Adèle.  It  is  very  late,  and  I  have  no 
more  paper.  Excuse  my  scrawl.  Adieu,  je  t'em- 
brasse ! 

Your  Husband. 


March  i6th. 

I  had  lost,  Adèle,  the  habit  of  feeling  happy,  but 
I  felt  on  reading  your  too  short  little  note  all  the  joy 
I  have  been  deprived  of  for  nearly  a  whole  year. 
The  certainty  that  you  love  me  has  suddenly  drawn 
me  out  of  my  long  apathy.  I  am  almost  happy! 
I  am  thinking  how  to  find  expressions  to  return  you 
that  sense  of  happiness,  you  who  are  the  cause  of  it, 
and  I  can  find  none.  Yet  I  must  write  to  you.  Too 
many  emotions  are  crowding  on  me  all  at  once;  I 
cannot  live  without  imparting  them  to  you. 

Besides,  I  am  your  husband,  and  you  can  have 
no  scruples  about  corresponding  with  your  husband. 
We  are  united  by  a  sacred  tie.  What  we  do  is  justi- 
fied in  our  own  eyes,  and  some  day  it  will  be  so  in  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  world.  In  corresponding  with  each 
other,  we  only  exercise  our  right.  We  are  doing  our 
duty.  Would  you  have  the  courage,  my  dear-beloved 
Adèle,  to  deprive  me  so  soon  of  a  happiness  now 
all  in  all  to  me?  We  must  both  see  into  the  depths 
of  each  other's  soul.  I  repeat  that,  if  you  still  love 
me,  you  ought  to  have  no  scruple  about  writing  to 
me,  as  you  are  my  wife.     Cease,  then,  to  be  worried 

24 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

about  it.  Write  to  me  about  all  you  think,  and  all 
you  do.  We  shall  thus  live  for  each  other;  it  will 
be  almost  as  if  we  were  once  more  living  together. 
I,  too,  will  send  you  a  journal  of  all  I  am  doing,  for 
I  like  you  to  know  all  my  actions.  For  a  whole  year 
I  have  always  acted  as  if  all  I  did  was  to  be  laid  be- 
fore you.  I  should  be  very  happy,  Adèle,  if  you 
could  tell  me  the  same!  You  promise  me,  do  you 
not,  from  henceforth  to  tell  me  all  about  your  pleas- 
ures and  your  pursuits,  and  to  initiate  your  husband 
into  all  your  secrets?  Cultivate  your  charming  tal- 
ent.* But  for  you  it  must  never  be  anything  but  a 
charming  talent.  You  must  never  turn  to  it  as  a 
means  of  support — that  is  my  afïair.  I  wish  that 
all  through  life  yours  should  be  all  the  pleasure, 
all  the  glory,  if  I  achieve  success  ;  mine,  all  the  work, 
all  the  pains.  They  will  be  sweet,  if  they  are  borne 
for  you.  Thou  wilt  be  my  soul,  and  I  thine  arm! 
I  have  still  a  thousand  things  to  tell  thee,  but  this 
letter  must  end.  Besides,  I  am  not  sure  if  you  can 
read  such  a  scrawl.  Alas!  all  my  happiness  now 
consists  in  one  hope — that  you  will  answer  me! 
Adieu,  my  adored  Adèle,  adieu  !     Je  t'embrasse  ! 

Thy  Husband. 

March  2ist. 

If — which  seems  impossible — you  should  have  any- 
thing more  you  wish  to  tell  me,  as  there  is  no  chance 
of  speaking  to  each  other,  you  might  write  to  me  by 
post,  directing  your  letter  to 

*  Adèle  could  draw  very  prettily. 
25 


The   Love   Letters    of   yictor   Hugo 

M.  Victor  Hugo,  de  V Académie  des  Jeux  floraux, 
poste  restante,  au  Bureau  général.  Rue  Jean- Jacques- 
Rousseau,  à  Paris. 

That  vain  title  will  for  once  be  of  use  to  me;  by 
using  it  you  may  be  sure  that  your  letter  will  fall 
into  no  hands  but  mine.  From  March  22d  to  March 
30th  I  shall  call  at  the  post-office  once  a  day.  If 
during  that  time  you  do  not  send  me  a  letter,  I  shall 
know  that  it  is  because  you  will  have  nothing  more 
to  say  to  me. 

Adieu!  Probably  I  ought  before  this  to  have 
ceased  to  use  thee  and  thou  to  thee.  I  know  I  ought, 
but  I  could  not  do  it.     Adieu. 

Friday,  March  23d. 

One  word  from  you,  Adèle,  has  altered  all  my  reso- 
lutions. Forget  my  last  letter,  even  as  I  have  for- 
gotten all  that  your  last  contained,  which  was  so 
painful  to  me.  Is  it,  then,  really  true  that  you  do 
not  forbid  me  ever  again  to  see  you?  Yes,  I  shall  see 
you  again,  since  you,  my  beloved  Adèle,  are  so  good 
as  to  persist  in  writing  to  me. 

I  even  hope  to  find  some  means  of  reconciling  what 
you  owe  to  your  husband  with  what  you  owe  to  the 
proprieties  that  you  set  up  for  yourself. 

I  will  write  you  on  this  subject  more  at  length  next 
time.  At  this  moment  I  have  only  time  to  send  you 
a  few  words,  in  which  I  try  in  vain  to  express  my 
gratitude  and  happiness. 

Adieu,  my  adored  Adèle.  Write  to  me,  and  love 
me  a  little. 

Je  t'embrasse  ! 

26 


The    Love   Letters   of   Victor  Hugo 

Sunday,  March  z^th. 

I  was  made  very  unhappy,  my  Adèle,  by  not  see- 
ing you  yesterday  morning,  as  I  had  hoped  to  do. 
If  you  had  received  my  last  letter  without  sending 
me  any  consoling  words  we  should  have  never  seen 
each  other  again.  But  you  gave  me  at  that  very 
moment  a  proof  of  affection  which  deeply  moved  me, 
and  you  have  consented  to  write  to  me  as  before. 
I  wanted  to  take  back  that  letter  because  of  what 
I  said  in  it  in  a  moment  of  anger  and  discourage- 
ment. You  would  not  give  it  me,  and  you  read  what 
now  I  wish  you  may  already  have  forgotten.  It 
was  therefore  important  I  should  see  you  on  Satur- 
day, to  remove  the  impression  of  that  unhappy  note. 

I  had  already  written  you  a  few  words,  which  you 
will  find  enclosed  in  this  letter.  A  most  unlucky 
circumstance  prevented  me  from  giving  it  to  you. 
Forgive  me,  therefore,  my  last  letier,  as  I  forgive 
you  all  the  doubts  that  yours  had  caused  me.  You 
are  willing  to  write  to  me  again,  but  I  must  not  put 
too  great  a  strain  on  your  generosity.  You  run  risks, 
you  say,  of  being  seen  with  me  ;  you  fear  the  prying 
eyes  of  all  the  gossiping  old  women  in  the  quar- 
ter, and  I  am  tr3àng  to  find  the  means  of  reconciling 
these  miserable  conventionalities  with  the  happi- 
ness of  seeing  you,  for  that  I  cannot  forego.  Tell 
me  yourself  what  you  wish  us  to  do.  If  you  really 
wish  we  should  meet  only  once  a  week,  once  a  fort- 
night, once  a  month  ...  I  will  obey  j'ou;  and 
such  terrible  obedience  will  be  the  greatest  proof  that 
I  could  give  you  of  an  attachment  that  has  no  limit 
to  its  devotion.     Then  we  will  write  to  each  other 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

and  exchange  letters  every  time  we  meet,  and  you 
shall  tell  me  all  about  yourself,  for  it  is  the  only 
subject  that  can  interest  me. 

As  for  coming  to  your  house,  I  see  no  possible 
way  of  doing  it,  at  least  for  the  present.  My  fam- 
ily is  ambitious  for  me,  as  I  am  for  you.  Some  day 
I  hope,  if  I  succeed  in  being  able  to  help  them,  if  I 
can  put  them  into  easy  circumstances  and  give  them 
some  fortune,  they  will  consent  to  my  being  happy. 
If  not,  I  shall  take  my  own  way.  This  is  my  only 
hope.  Those  who  would  like  to  tear  me  apart  from 
you  little  know  that  I  should  then  be  nothing. 

Adieu,  my  Adèle.  Try  to  answer  all  I  have  said 
in  my  letter,  and  arrange  everything  as  may  be  best 
for  your  own  comfort  and  happiness,  in  comparison 
with  which  mine  is  as  nothing. 

Your  Faithful  Husband. 

I  saw  you  to-day  at  Saint  Sulpice  and  at  M.  de 
Leymerie's.  I  was  just  entering  a  house  where  once 
I  had  seen  you  dancing. 

Friday,  4  p.m.,  March  2gth. 

One  word  more,  for  pity's  sake,  my  Adèle.  Do 
you  not  know  that  it  is  very  hard  for  me  to  resign 
myself  to  remain  one  whole  month  without  speaking 
to  you?  A  month  is  an  eternity.  Give  me  at  least 
the  consolation  of  seeing  you  once  more  before  such 
a  long  separation. 

Besides  this,  could  I  be  one  long,  whole  month 
without  thanking  you  for  the  charming  present  you 
have  given  me,  while  at  the  same  time  you  impose 
so  cruel  an  obligation?      I  do  not  know,  my  adored 

28 


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Adèle,  what  expressions  to  employ  to  describe  to 
you  the  joy  with  which  I  received  this  pledge  of  our 
eternal  union.  I  did  all  sorts  of  extravagant  things. 
The  hair  was  yours,  my  Adèle,  and  now  part  of  your- 
self is  mine  already!  How  can  I  repay  you  for  all 
you  do  for  me?  I  have  only  one  wretched  life,  but 
it  belongs  to  you;  that  is  not  much  to  say.  Make 
anything  of  me  you  will;  I  am  3'^our  husband  and 
your  slave. 

And  yet  you  will  say  I  begin  by  disobeying  j^^ou. 
Adèle,  just  think,  I  shall  have  to  wait  a  month. 
A  month  !  Good  heaven  !  would  not  two  weeks  have 
been  long  enough?  Two  weeks  are  so  long!  I  im- 
plore you,  think  over  it,  and  try  to  tell  me  on  the 
28th  of  April  that  we  shall  meet  again  in  two  weeks. 
I  will  obey  you  all  this  sad  month  of  April,  since 
the  decree  has  gone  forth  ;  but  try  to  make  obedience 
less  difficult  for  me. 

Adèle,  I  see  I  am  more  selfish  than  I  thought  ; 
3^et  think  how  long  a  month  is  !  What  would  become 
of  me  without  seeing  you?  Good  heaven!  if  I  could 
not  press  against  my  heart  this  lock  of  hair,  which 
will  never  be  parted  from  me! 

Adieu,  my  wife,  my  beloved  Adèle.  Forgive  me 
for  writing  to  you.     Je  t'embrasse  tendrement  f 

Your  faithful  husband, 

V.  M.  Hugo. 

In  case  —  which  God  forbid  !  —  anything  should 
happen  to  interfere  with  our  intercourse,  you  can 
safely  write  to  the  address  I  have  already  given 
you.     Adieu  for  a  great  long  month. 

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Remember  that  on  April  28th  I  shall  expect  a  very 
long  letter,  a  sort  of  journal  of  everything  you  have 
thought,  and  every  one  of  your  actions.     Adieu! 


April  26th. 

Do  you  remember,  Adèle,  that  this  day  is  the  anni- 
versary of  that  which  determined  the  course  of  my 
whole  life?  It  was  on  the  26th  of  April,  1819,  when  I 
one  evening  was  sitting  at  your  feet,  that  you  asked 
me  to  tell  you  my  greatest  secret,  and  promised  in 
return  to  tell  me  yours?  All  the  circumstances  of 
that  delicious  evening  are  as  fresh  in  my  memory  as 
if  all  had  happened  yesterday,  and  yet  since  then 
how  many  days  of  misfortune  and  discouragement 
have  passed  !  I  hesitated  a  few  moments  before  I  sur- 
rendered to  you  the  secret  of  my  life,  and  then  trem- 
blingly I  confessed  that  I  loved  3^ou;  but  after  the 
reply  you  made  me,  Adèle,  I  felt  the  courage  of  a 
lion.  I  at  once,  with  energy,  seized  on  the  idea  of 
trying  to  be  something  for  your  sake  ;  my  whole  be- 
ing seemed  to  have  new  strength.  I  saw  at  least  one 
certain  prospect  before  me  on  this  earth,  that,  namely, 
of  being  loved  by  you.  Oh!  tell  me  that  you  have 
not  forgotten  that  evening  ;  tell  me  that  3'ou  remem- 
ber it  all!  My  whole  life  has  ever  since  been  lived 
in  the  happiness  or  the  sorrow  that  dated  from  that 
day.  Is  it  not  true,  my  beloved  Adèle,  that  you,  too, 
have  not  forgotten  it? 

Well,  by  a  strange  fatality  that  fills  me  with  won- 
der whenever  I  feel  myself  out  of  humor  with  Provi- 
dence (forgive  me  for  sajàng  it),  the  very  anniver- 
sary of  my  happiness  (and  let  me  say  of  yours)  was 

30 


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the  day  selected  for  a  total  change.  It  was  on  April 
26,  1820,  that  our  families  discovered  what  no  one 
had  any  right  to  know  but  ourselves  in  our  own 
souls.  The  26th  of  April  was  the  date  of  all  my  hopes  ; 
the  26th  of  April  is  the  date  of  my  despair.  I  only 
had  one  year  of  happiness.  My  second  year  of  sor- 
row is  now  going  to  begin.     Will  there  be  a  third? 

You  do  not  know,  Adèle — and  it  is  a  confession 
I  could  make  to  no  one  but  yourself — that  the  day  on 
which  it  was  decided  that  I  must  see  you  no  more 
I  wept.  Yes,  indeed,  I  wept  as  I  had  not  wept  for  ten 
years,  and  doubtless  as  I  shall  never  weep  again. 
I  had  gone  through  a  very  painful  scene;  I  had 
listened  to  the  sentence  of  our  separation  with 
a  face  as  unmoved  as  brass  or  iron;  then,  when 
your  father  and  mother  had  gone  away,  my  mother, 
seeing  me  stand  pale  and  speechless,  became  more 
tender  than  even  she  was  wont.  She  tried  to  comfort 
me,  but  I  rushed  away,  and  when  I  was  alone  I  wept 
long  and  bitterly.  I  had  remained  impassive  and 
strong  so  long  as  I  saw  in  my  separation  from  you 
only  the  prelude  to  my  death.  But  a  little  reflec- 
tion showed  me  that  it  was  my  duty  to  cherish 
your  defender's  life,  so  long  as  that  life  might  be  of 
use  to  you.  Then  I  wept  like  a  coward.  I  had 
no  longer  any  control  over  myself  when  I  recognized 
the  duty  of  living — of  living  parted  from  you. 

Since  then  I  only  breathe,  I  only  speak,  I  only 
move,  I  only  act,  thinking  of  you.  My  state  is  one 
of  widowhood,  since  I  cannot  be  near  you.  There 
is  no  other  woman  in  all  the  world  to  me,  except 
my  mother.     When  I  am  forced  to  make  my  appear- 

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The   Love    Letters    of   Victor  Hugo 

ance  in  fashionable  or  literary  salons  I  am  considered 
the  coldest  of  human  beings.  No  one  knows  that  I 
am  the  most  impassioned. 

All  this  may  perhaps  weary  you,  but  I  am  giving 
an  account  of  myself  to  my  wife.  It  would  make 
me  very  happy  if  you  could  say  the  same  of  yourself 
to  me. 

I  saw  you  this  morning,  and  again  this  evening. 
I  felt  that  I  must  see  you  on  such  an  anniversary — 
that  it  must  not  pass  without  some  little  joy.  This 
morning  I  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  you;  you  had 
forbidden  me  to  do  so  before  the  28th.  I  obey  your 
orders,  but  they  are  very  painful  to  me.  Adieu  for 
this  evening,  Adèle;  the  night  is  far  advanced; 
doubtless  you  are  asleep,  not  thinking  of  the  curl  of 
thy  dark  hair  which,  every  night  before  going  to 
sleep,  thy  husband  presses  to  his  lips  as  a  sacred 
duty. 

April  27th. 

To  the  sadness  which  during  the  past  year  has  be- 
come my  second  nature  there  has  been  added  during 
the  last  few  days  a  weariness,  an  exhaustion  from 
overwork,  which  from  time  to  time  throws  me  into 
a  strange  state  of  apathy.  I  have  no  pleasure  but 
in  writing  to  you,  and  then  my  difficulty  is  to  find 
words  which  will  give  you  an  adequate  picture  of 
my  ideas  and  my  emotions.  You  must  sometimes, 
I  fear,  Adèle,  think  the  language  of  my  letters  strange 
and  extravagant,  but  that  is  because  of  the  difficulty 
I  find  in  expressing  to  you,  even  imperfectly,  what  I 
feel  for  you, 

I  am  expecting  from  you  a  long — a  very  long — 

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The   Love   Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

letter,  which  will  compensate  me  somewhat  for  this 
long  month  of  waiting;  a  complete  journal,  which 
will  let  me  into  the  secret  of  all  your  actions,  all  j^our 
thoughts.  I,  too,  should  have  kept  a  diary  for  3"ou, 
if  I  had  been  as  sure  you  would  not  tire  of  it  as  3^ou 
can  be  sure  that  every  word  of  yours  will  be  interest- 
ing to  me.  However,  my  daily  journal  could  have 
been  summed  up  in  these  words  :  "  I  thought  of  3^ou 
all  day,  whatever  I  was  doing,  and  all  night  I  thought 
of  you  in  my  dreams." 

What  more  could  I  say  to  you?  That  I  saw  you 
twice  at  Saint  Sulpice,  and  that  twice  j^ou  refused 
me  the  permission  to  accept  what  the  good  God 
seemed  willing  to  offer  me,  the  happiness  of  our  pass- 
ing an  hour  together.  That  I  met  you  one  evening 
near  your  own  house,  and  that  of  us  two  the  only 
one  who  showed  any  recognition  of  the  other  was  I. 
That  I  saw  you  in  the  Luxembourg  on  the  23d  of 
April,  and  then  bitterly  reflected  that  on  the  23d  of 
April,  1820,  I  gave  you  m3?'  arm  for  the  last  time. 

Shall  I  tell  3^ou  how  manj^  times  at  night,  re- 
turning from  my  lonely  walks,  I  have  stopped  at  the 
entrance  of  the  Rue  d'Assas,  before  a  light  that  I 
knew  was  in  3^our  window?  How  man\^  times  I  have 
thought,  when  I  saw  the  3'oung  leaves  on  the  trees,  of 
the  hours  we  passed  together  in  your  garden  !  If  3^ou 
sat  down,  it  was  near  me,  3^our  arm  leaned  ui)on 
mine,  your  hand  was  not  withdrawn  from  my  hand, 
our  eyes  could  always  look  into  each  other,  and  if 
from  time  to  time  I  dared  to  press  3'ou  to  my  heart, 
you  onl3^  repulsed  me  with  a  smile.  Adèle,  Adèle! 
think  what  I  have  lost! 
C  33 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

I  am  too  agitated  when  I  think  of  these  things  to 
go  on.  Let  me  break  off.  I  will  resume  my  letter 
this  evening. 

Midnight. 

After  a  few  more  hours,  Adèle,  I  shall  see  you  again  ; 
I  shall  speak  to  you  again  ;  I  shall  receive  your  letter. 
Those  hours  will  pass  very  slowly — more  slowly 
even  than  this  eternal  month  of  April.  Tell  me, 
my  dearest,  has  it  seemed  so  long  to  you  as  it  has  to 
me,  this  long  month  of  loneliness?  Have  you  been 
dreaming,  as  I  have,  with  delight  of  the  28th  of  April? 
Alas!  all  I  dare  to  ask  is  that  you  may  sometimes 
have  thought  of  it  with  pleasure.  That  is  all  I 
venture  to  hope. 

You  must  at  least  have  softened  the  rigor  of  your 
first  decision;  you  must  have  had  pity  upon  me. 
Surely,  from  this  time  we  may  see  each  other  once 
a  week,  may  we  not?  And  you  will  try  to  arrange 
that  we  may  pass  some  time  together?  You  do  not 
know  what  I  am  hoping  for  at  this  very  moment — 
madly,  perchance.  It  is  that  to-morrow  you  will  not 
have  the  courage  to  leave  me  so  promptly  as  you 
generally  do  ;  that  we  might  go  for  a  moment  into  the 
Jardin  des  Bains,  which  is  sure  to  be  empty;  that 
your  arm  may  once  more  lean  on  mine  ;  that  I  may 
look  at  you  once  more  at  my  ease,  a  happiness  I  have 
not  had  for  such  a  long  time.  Surely,  Adèle,  you 
cannot  refuse  me  this? 

But  I  am  mad.  You  will  hardly  look  at  me  ;  you 
will  slip  into  my  hand  in  secret  a  little  note  that  you 
have  had  no  pleasure  in  writing  to  me  ;  you  will  say 
about  three  words  to  me,  just  as  if  an  angel  had  to 

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The   Love   Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

speak  to  a  devil,  and  you  will  disappear,  before  I 
have  had  strength  to  make  my  prayer  asking  you 
to  talk  to  me  a  moment  longer,  a  prayer  that  you 
would  gladly  give  me  no  need  to  make  if  you  loved 
me  as  I  love  you. 

See,  Adèle,  how  chance  or  my  good  angel  has 
done  for  me  what  you  would  not  do.  You  told  me  I 
must  not  see  you  all  this  month.  Well,  they  have 
several  times  brought  me  within  sight  of  you.  Thus, 
on  the  15th  of  last  July,  I  met  you  at  the  ball  at 
Sceaux.  I  had  several  times  obstinately  refused  to 
go  there.  At  last  I  yielded  to  persuasion,  or  rather  to 
the  advice  of  my  good  angel  who  was  leading  me, 
although  I  knew  it  not,  towards  her  whom  I  was  look- 
ing for  everywhere!  You  seemed  displeased  to  see 
me,  and  I  had  the  cruel  happiness  of  seeing  you 
dance  all  the  evening  with  other  partners.  You  see, 
Adèle,  I  love  you  more  than  you  love  me,  for  nothing 
in  the  world  would  have  induced  me  to  dance  at  that 
ball.  We  went  home  before  you  did.  I  was  very 
tired,  but  I  insisted  on  walking  back  to  Paris,  hop- 
ing that  the  carriage  in  which  you  rode  would  over- 
take me;  and,  as  it  happened,  half  an  hour  later 
a  fiacre  passed  me,  in  which  I  thought  I  recognized 
you.  This  fancy  paid  me  for  the  dust  and  the 
fatigue  of  my  long  tramp. 

Adèle,  forgive  me,  I  may  tire  you,  but  do  you  love 
me  thus?  Let  me  talk  to  you  a  little  of  my  deep  de- 
votion. Nothing  in  me  is  perfect  but  the  merit  of 
deeply  loving  you.  Adieu.  I  am  at  all  events  very 
grateful  for  all  that  3'ou  have  done  for  me. 

Adieu,  my  adored  Adèle.     It  is  adieu  only  for  a 

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The    Love   Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

short  time,  I  hope.  Sleep  soundly,  and  let  me  em- 
brace you  very  tenderly,  but  very  innocently,  in  your 
dreams. 

Your  Husband. 


This  meeting  on  the  28th  of  April,  from  which  Victor 
promised  himself  so  much  happiness,  was  their  last. 
The  lovers  after  that  day  ceased  to  see  each  other,  or 
even  to  write.  Not  that  they  had  been  discovered,  and 
once  more  separated  by  a  parental  decree,  but  Mme. 
Hugo,  whose  health  had  been  failing  for  some  months, 
became  very  ill  early  in  May.  From  that  moment  Victor 
scarcely  left  her  pillow,  and  devoted  himself  entirely  to 
her.  Her  illness,  with  alternations  of  worse  and  better, 
lasted  two  months.  Mme.  Hugo  died  on  the  27th  of 
June. 

It  was  a  deep  grief  to  Victor.  His  capacity  for  affec- 
tion, to  which  he  sometimes  makes  allusion  in  his  let- 
ters, had  need  of  family  ties,  and  the  adoration  he  be- 
stowed upon  his  mother  had  suiîjîlied  that  need,  with  the 
sweet  consciousness  that  he,  too,  was  infinitely  beloved 
by  her.  He  had  twice  owed  her  his  life,  and  now  he  felt 
twice  orphaned.  He  was  estranged  from  his  father,  who 
was  indifferent  to  him,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  He  was 
coldly  treated  by  his  brothers,  who  were  jealous  of  his 
superiority,  and  separated  from  Adèle,  whose  hand 
was  refused  him.  He  felt  himself  all  alone  in  the  wide 
world. 

His  wretchedness  was  increased  by  an  unhappy  in- 
cident. He  will  tell  it  in  one  of  his  letters  ;  we  will  only 
allude  to  it  here.  On  June  29th,  the  evening  of  the  àay 
when  his  mother  was  buried,  he  left  the  house,  unable 
to  bear  its  emptiness  and  solitude,  and  instinctively, 
as  he  often  did,  found  his  way  into  the  neighborhood 
of  the  Hôtel  de  Toulouse.  Its  windows  were  a  blaze 
of  light  ;  it  was  M.  Foucher's  fête  day  ;  there  was  a 
ball  going  on  there.  Victor  knew  all  about  the  place  ; 
he  went  up  to  the  second  story,  went  into  an  empty 
room,  from  which  a  little  inside  window  looked  into 
the  ball-room,  and  thence  he  saw  Adèle  dancing  and 
gay.     Subsequentlv  she  proved  to  him  that  the  news 

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of  his  mother's  death  had  been  carefully  concealed  from 
her,  and  assured  him  that  had  she  known  of  his  pres- 
ence she  would  have  risked  everything  to  leave  the 
ball-room  and  have  come  to  him  to  share  his  sorrow. 
But  at  the  time  he  was  absolutely  overwhelmed  by  this 
fresh  blow. 

His  father  showed  him  little  tenderness.  He  sent 
him  word  that  he  would  make  him  an  allowance  on 
condition  that  he  would  give  up  literature  ;  \^ictor  re- 
fused. He  had  only  eight  hundred  francs  in  his  pos- 
session, but  such  was  the  strength  of  his  will  that  this 
little  sum  seemed  to  liim  enough  with  which  to  face 
the  future. 

M.  Foucher  thought  it  proper  to  pay  him  a  visit  of 
condolence,  and  Victor  returned  the  visit,  but  he  was 
not  allowed  to  see  Adèle.  M.  Foucher  even  assured 
him  that  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  leave  Paris  for 
a  time.  We  know  already  that  the  Foucher  family 
was  in  the  habit  of  hiring  during  the  summer  some 
small  place  in  the  covuitry  ;  generally  it  was  in  the 
suburbs,  and  three  or  four  leagues  would  not  have 
kept  Victor  away.  On  July  15th,  however,  M.  Foucher, 
with  his  wife  and  daughter,  went  to  Dreux,  twenty-five 
leagues  away  from  Paris,  and  twenty-five  francs  be- 
sides. On  the  1 6th  of  July  Victor  set  out,  and  in  three 
days  reached  Dreux,  having  tramped  all  the  way. 

The  next  day  he  was  walking  about  the  town  when 
he  suddenly  met  M.  Foucher,  who  was  accompanied 
by  Adèla  He  took  care  they  should  not  see  him,  but 
he  sent  M.  Foucher  a  letter,  a  manifestly  fictitious  letter. 
Its  falsehood  seems  almost  toucliing  from  its  frankness. 
He  wrote: 

"Monsieur, — I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  j^ou  to- 
day here  in  Dreux,  and  I  asked  myself,  could  it  be  a 
dream!  ..."  Then,  to  explain  what  he  calls  "a  most 
extraordinary  chance,"  he  relates  that  he  had  come  down 
from  Paris  on  the  invitation  of  a  friend  living  between 
Dreux  and  Nonancourt.  However,  this  friend,  by  a 
strange  fatality,  left  home  for  (zap  the  evening  before  he 
arrived.  Victor  would  have  returned  at  once  to  Paris,  but 
being  well  acquainted  in  Dreux,  he  had  received  invita- 
tions, made  engagements,  "  and  what  is  very  remarkable 
is  that  I  left  Paris  with  much  reluctance.     The  wish  j^ou 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

expressed  to  have  ine  absent  myself  for  some  time  con- 
tributed to  my  decision.  Your  advice  has  had  a  singular 
result."  The  letter,  however,  ends  with  what  is  true 
and  sincere  :  "  I  should  not  be  candid  if  I  did  not  tell 
you  that  the  unexpected  sight  of  mademoiselle  your 
daughter  gave  me  great  pleasure.  I  venture  to  say  boldly 
that  I  love  her  with  all  the  strength  of  my  soul,  and, 
in  my  complete  isolation  and  my  deep  grief,  nothing 
but  thoughts  of  her  can  give  me  joy  or  pleasure." 

Good  M.  Foucher  may  well  have  smiled  over  Victor's 
narrative  of  "extraordinary  coincidences."  But  what 
could  he  do  to  checkmate  a  lover  so  persistent — such 
an  indefatigable  pedestrian?  He  felt  that  he  must 
believe  in  the  sincerity  and  firm  purpose  of  the  young 
man. 

He  let  him  come  to  his  house,  and  had  an  explanation 
with  him,  in  the  presence  of  his  daughter. 

Victor  boldly  asked  him  for  Adèle's  hand.  He,  of 
course,  set  forth  his  position  in  the  best  light  he  could, 
but  it  was  terribly  uncertain.  He  said  that  he  had 
money  enough  in  hand  to  live  upon  while  awaiting  de- 
velopments in  the  future.  He  said  he  had  partly  writ- 
ten a  romance  in  the  stj^le  of  Walter  Scott,  which  he 
hoped  might  bring  in  a  good  sum  ;  and  that  because 
of  services  he  had  done  to  certain  persons  he  had  re- 
ceived positive  promises  of  a  government  place,  or  a 
pension.  As  to  the  consent  of  his  father,  he  felt  sure 
of  obtaining  it,  if  he  did  not  proceed  too  incautiously. 
But  he  did  not  say  that  he  was  very  doubtful  of  obtain- 
ing this  consent  from  the  general,  who  was  completely 
under  the  influence  of  a  woman  who  was  opposed  to  him  ; 
nor  did  he  say  that  although  he  had  all  possible  claims 
to  a  pension  from  the  king's  government,  he  was  too 
proud  to  push  forward  such  claims,  however  incontes- 
table. At  present  he  only  wanted  time,  and,  without 
taking  his  extreme  j^outh  into  account,  he  counted  on 
what  he  might  do  himself  to  achieve  independence. 

M.  Foucher,  only  half  convinced,  but  very  much 
moved  when  he  thought  of  the  young  man's  cour- 
age, gave  his  consent  to  allowing  Victor  once  more  to 
visit  at  his  house.  The  engagement  of  the  young  peo- 
ple was  not  to  be  officially  acknowledged  nor  made 
known  to  the  public.     That  could  not  be  until  Victor's 

38 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

financial  situation  was  put  upon  a  surer  basis.  Till 
then  they  might  see  each  other  once  a  week,  but  never 
alone  ;  they  might  meet  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  ; 
they  might  go  to  the  theatre  in  a  family  party.  Victor, 
as  he  could  not  do  better,  accepted  these  conditions. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done  at  Dreux,  and  they 
all  went  back  to  Paris. 

Correspondence  was  renewed,  but,  alas!  it  was  only 
with  Adèle's  father.  Victor  could  not  write  to  him 
about  the  ardor  of  his  love,  but  what  he  wrote  showed 
the  firmness  of  his  character.  He  addressed  M.  Foucher 
thus: 


.  .  .  The  dearest  thing  I  have  at  heart,  is  it  not 
the  happiness  of  mademoiselle  j^our  daughter?  If 
she  can  be  happy  without  me,  I  will  be  ready  to 
retire,  although  the  hope  of  being  hers  some  day  is 
my  sole  trust  and  expectation.  In  any  case,  how- 
ever, I  will  not  attain  happiness  by  any  road  that 
is  not  straight  and  honorable.  I  would  not  that 
she  should  ever  blush  for  her  husband.  I  think, 
without  presumption,  I  shall  end  by  attaining  happi- 
ness, because  I  have  a  firm  will,  and  a  firm  will  is 
very  powerful.  Whatever  may  be  the  result  of  my 
efforts,  though  obtaining  her  may  be  necessary  to 
my  happiness  and  my  life,  to  have  deserved  her 
must  be  balm  to  my  conscience  and  my  feelings. — 
Letter  of  July  2Sth. 

...  A  little  check  will  not  annihilate  great  cour- 
age. I  do  not  conceal  from  myself  the  uncertainties 
or  even  the  possible  dangers  of  the  future  ;  but  I  have 
been  taught  by  a  brave  mother  that  a  man  can  mas- 
ter circumstances.  Many  men  walk  with  uncertain 
steps  upon  firm  ground;  a  man  who  has  a  good 

39 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor  Hugo 

conscience  and  a  worthy  aim  should  walk  with  a 
firm  tread  even  on  dangerous  ground.  —  Monfort 
V  Amaury,  August  ^d. 

At  the  end  of  this  month  of  August  he  was  staying 
at  the  château  of  his  friend,  the  young  Due  de  Rohan, 
but  his  spirit  of  independence  would  not  let  him  remain 
there  long.     He  writes  thus: 

Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Berry,  who  is  at  Rosny, 
is  to  come  and  stay  at  the  château  in  a  few  days' 
time.  M.  de  Rohan  wants  to  keep  me  here  at  least 
until  she  arrives,  but  I  do  not  like  to  take  advantage 
of  his  kindness.  I  do  not  like  the  thought  that  my 
exceptional  pecuniary  position  should  lead  to  my 
becoming  the  dependant  of  a  man  whom  my  social 
position  enables  me  to  consider  my  friend.  I  have  a 
strong  regard  for  the  Due  de  Rohan  for  his  own  sake, 
for  his  noble  soul,  and  for  his  courtly  manners; 
but  I  do  not  care  for  him  in  view  of  the  material 
services  he  might  be  able  to  render  me. 

Thereupon  Victor  came  back  to  Paris,  where  his  great 
attraction  awaited  him.  The  lovers  saw  each  other  very 
frequently  in  September.  But  soon  these  interviews, 
being  always  in  the  presence  of  a  third  person,  were 
not  enough  for  him.  He  induced  Adèle  to  give  him 
an  occasional  meeting  out-doors,  and  their  sweet  corre- 
spondence was  once  more  renewed. 

FRrOAY,  October  5th. 

I  wrote  you  a  long  letter,  Adèle,  but  it  was  too 
sad;  I  tore  it  up.  I  wrote  it  because  3^ou  are  the 
only  creature  in  the  world  to  whom  I  can  speak  freely 
of  all  I  sufïer  and  of  all  I  fear.  But  perhaps  it  might 
have  given  you  some  pain,  and  I  will  never  volun- 

40 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

tarily  make  you  suffer  by  my  troubles.  Besides,  I 
forget  them  at  once  when  we  meet.  You  do  not 
know — you  cannot  imagine — how  great  my  happi- 
ness is  when  I  see  you,  hear  you  speak,  and  feel  you 
near  me  !  Now  that  I  have  not  seen  you  for  two  days, 
I  think  of  it  with  an  excitement  that  seems  almost 
convulsive.  When  I  have  passed  a  few  moments 
beside  you  I  feel  much  better.  There  is  something 
in  your  very  glance,  so  noble  and  so  generous,  that 
seems  to  exalt  me.  When  your  eyes  meet  mine, 
it  is  as  if  your  soul  passed  into  me.  And  then — 
oh,  then  !  my  beloved  Adèle,  I  feel  capable  of  accom- 
plishing anything;  I  am  strengthened  by  being  en- 
dowed with  all  your  gentle  virtues. 

How  much  I  wish  that  you  could  read  all  that 
there  is  within  me;  that  your  soul  could  be  infused 
into  mine,  as  your  smile  infuses  itself  into  my  whole 
being!  If  we  could  be  alone  together,  just  for  one 
hour,  Adèle,  you  would  see  how  much  I  should  need 
your  pity,  were  it  not  that  I  possess  the  greatest  of 
all  happinesses,  the  sweetest  of  all  consolations,  in 
the  thought  that  you  love  me. 

I  had  written  to  you  about  my  troubles,  without 
reflecting  that  I  was  writing  to  you  about  things 
that  could  only  be  told  in  speech,  and  told  to  you 
alone.  ...  I  see  I  am  now  falling  back  into  the 
same  reflections  which  made  me  tear  up  my  former 
letter.  Remember,  my  Adèle,  that  all  troubles  count 
for  nothing  as  soon  as  I  have  the  indescribable 
happiness  of  seeing  you;  what,  then,  does  it  matter 
that  the  rest  of  my  daj^  should  be  sad,  and  when  at 
last  I  have  won  you,  my  beloved  Adèle,  what  shall 

41 


The   Love   Letters   of  Victor   Hugo 

I  care  for  these  years  of  trial  which  now  seem  so 
long  and  so  painful  to  me? 

Adieu.  Write  to  me,  and  increase  as  far  as  possi- 
ble, I  implore  you,  our  brief  interviews.  They  are 
my  only  consolation,  for  I  do  not  think  that  you 
will  wrong  me  so  far  as  to  imagine  that  the  pleasure 
derived  from  amour-propre  and  pride  in  my  literary 
success  are  anything  to  me.  You  only  are  my  joy  ; 
in  you  is  all  my  happiness  ;  in  you,  my  life.  You 
are  all  your  sex  to  me,  because  I  find  concentrated 
in  you  all  that  is  most  perfect  in  women. 

Adieu,  my  dearest  Adèle.  Je  t'embrasse  bien  ten- 
drement et  bien  respectueusement. 

Your  Faithful  Husband. 

Thursday. 
I  have  thought  much  and  long,  Adèle,  over  this 
answer.  Ought  I — can  I — satisfy  you?  There  was 
more  of  compassion  than  of  tenderness  in  your  letter. 
I  thank  you  for  taking  some  pity  upon  me;  I  am 
indeed  very  much  to  be  compassionated  for  more 
than  one  reason.  It  seems  to  me,  if  I  must  tell  you 
what  I  hardly  dare  say  to  myself,  that  your  letters 
are  becoming  colder  and  colder.  At  one  moment  it 
seemed  as  if  you  were  once  more  what  you  had  been 
two  years  ago  ;  but  this  moment  .  .  .  Ask  yourself 
seriously.  I  fear  lest  this  fatal  trial  of  eighteen 
months*  may  have  destroyed  the  happiness  of  my 
whole  life  by  diminishing  your  first  affection.  For 
my  part,  I  cannot  be  happy  if  I  am  only  half  loved. 

*  The  separation,  in  fact,  had  been  only  for  nine  months,  but  it 
seems  that  such  months  counted  double. 

42 


The   Love    Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

See,  look  into  yourself,  and  tell  me  if  you  can  candidly 
say  that  during  this  long  absence  you  have  never 
forgotten  me  a  single  instant.  I  have  several  times 
asked  you  this  question,  but  have  never  obtained  a 
direct  answer.  Answer  me  now  trulj^,  I  implore  you. 
I  shall  guess  the  truth  if  you  do  not  tell  it  me,  and 
it  is  from  your  own  mouth,  and  not  my  own  conject- 
ures, that  I  would  receive  death  or  life. 

Adèle,  you  see  that  a  cold  glance  or  an  indifferent 
word  from  you  suf&ces  to  renew  all  my  insupportable 
doubts,  and  assuredly,  of  all  my  sufferings,  that 
would  be  the  greatest  ;  it  would  go  to  my  very  heart. 
All  other  griefs  might  pass  away,  but  what  could 
console  me  for  that  one?  And  who  knows  if  even 
after  death  we  could  forget  what  it  was  to  have  been 
no  longer  loved? 

If  you  were  only  an  ordinary  woman,  Adèle,  I 
should  do  more  to  show  you  how  deepl3^  your  image 
is  engraven  in  my  heart.  I  should  do  wrong  to  let 
you  see  the  slavish  love  which  makes  my  whole 
being  submit  itself  to  yours;  an  ordinar3''  woman 
would  not  understand  this,  and  would  onlj^  see  in 
my  unconquerable  passion  an  advantage  given 
her  to  do  anything  she  pleased  with  a  man  of 
whom  she  felt  herself  secure.  An  ordinary  woman, 
whose  attachment  the  man  devoted  to  her  was 
anxious  to  increase,  would  find  it  his  best  plan  to 
treat  her  carelessly  and  inconsistently,  sometimes 
affectionately,  and  then  again  with  indifference.  He 
would  pretend  to  have  other  fancies  ;  he  would  leave 
her,  come  back  to  her,  and  alarm  her  vanitj^  that 
he  might  excite  her  jealousy  —  in  short,  he  would 

43 


The    Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

play  a  part  to  win  her  love.  But  I  am  not  an  act- 
or, and  you  are  very  far  from  being  an  ordinary 
woman. 

What  value,  indeed,  could  be  attached  to  the  pass- 
ing affection  of  such  a  being?  Would  it  be  worth  the 
trouble  of  putting  on  a  mask,  and  degrading  one's 
self  by  admitting  petty,  vile  arts  and  calculations 
into  the  most  noble  of  all  feelings?  I  would  never 
act  thus  with  you,  Adèle  ;  I  love  j^ou  with  self-respect 
because  I  love  you  truly.  I  think  that  a  trick  would 
lower  us  both,  and  that  your  heart  is  noble  enough 
to  understand  and  to  appreciate  an  overpowering  love. 
Answer  the  question  I  have  put  to  you  with  all 
frankness  and  confidence.  All  depends  upon  what 
you  tell  me. 

I  have  read  over  this  letter,  and  I  tremble  for  its 
answer.  No  matter  !  The  future  can  be  determined 
by  a  word,  as  an  avalanche  is  by  a  pebble,  or  a  con- 
flagration by  a  spark.  What  is  our  life,  and  what 
the  thread  by  which  we  hang  suspended  between 
heaven  and  hell?  I  am  greatly  excited,  Adèle, 
and  yet,  if  you  could  at  this  moment  see  my  face, 
you  would  find  it  cold  and  icj^  like  the  faces  of  th-e 
dead.     I  will  resume  this  letter  later. 

How  does  it  happen  that  while  writing  these  two 
long  pages  I  have  forgotten  or  neglected  what  should 
have  been  the  subject  of  this  letter — the  request  you 
made  me,  the  confidence  you  seem  to  seek?  It  is 
because  I  was  tormented  with  the  idea  that  you  no 
longer  loved  me,  and,  that  being  the  case,  how  could 
I  think  of  other  things?  What  are  all  my  other 
troubles  compared  to  such  a  grief? 

44 


The   Love   Letters   of   J/ictor   Hugo 

Friday. 

Hear  me,  my  Adèle  ;  forgive  me  what  seems  bitter 
in  the  last  two  pages.  The  least  thing  irritates 
me,  dearest.  It  is  because  I  am  constantly  assailed 
by  painful  fancies.  All  my  days  are  passed  in  sad- 
ness, except  the  few  delicious  hours  when  I  may  see 
you.  Forgive  me — oh!  forgive  me.  It  would  seem 
very  sweet,  my  dear  Adèle,  to  pour  all  my  sorrow 
into  your  soul,  which  is  so  kind  and  so  g^enerous; 
but  I  must  repeat  that  that  can  only  be  viva  voce,  and 
I  fear,  as  you  do,  that  for  a  long  time  that  must  be 
impossible.  I  will  sufïer  alone.  It  is  not  that  I  fear 
for  your  letters.  All  that  I  have  to  tell  you  I  might 
tell  before  the  whole  world  w^ithout  having  cause  to 
blush  for  myself.  But  there  are  a  number  of  little 
things  which  it  would  be  too  trivial  to  commit  to 
writing,  and  which,  nevertheless,  constitute  our 
cares  from  day  to  day. 

Here  is  one  last  consideration.  I  have  fancied, 
Adèle,  that  I  could  remark  that  you  thought  I  had 
self-love — well,  not  to  mince  the  word,  vanity.  When 
I  perceived  this  it  could  not  but  give  me  pain.  If 
you  are  right,  if  I  am  really  vain,  I  ought  to  be  sorry 
that  among  my  many  faults  there  is  one  that  I  detest 
and  despise  more  than  any  other  in  the  world.  If 
you  are  wrong,  if  you  mistake  for  self-conceit  a  proper 
pride — a  feeling  I  acknowledge,  and  that  I  am  even 
glad  is  mine — I  must  deplore  more  than  ever  that  I  am 
misjudged  by  the  only  being  without  whose  esteem  I 
could  not  exist — above  all,  if  what  seems  to  her  a 
fault,  and  the  meanest  of  all  faults,  is,  in  mj^^  own  opin- 
ion, the  highest  quality  in  any  man  who  recognizes 

45 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

the  dignity  of  his  own  soul.  You  should  realize,  my 
Adèle,  how  much  I  wish  to  efface  this  idea  from 
your  mind,  if  you  have  really  entertained  it.  It  is, 
in  that  case,  only  by  making  the  least  possible  men- 
tion of  myself  that  I  can  succeed  in  dissipating  it. 
Now,  with  respect  to  the  confidence  you  ask  of  me, 
I  should  have  to  tell  you  a  crowd  of  things  which  you 
do  not  know,  and  if  I  told  them,  your  prejudices  might 
make  you  think  I  was  wanting  in  modesty,  however 
I  might  try  to  veil  my  account  with  simplicity.  So 
I  have  resolved  to  continue  to  keep  my  troubles  to 
myself,  and  this  partly  because  I  see  no  necessity 
for  annoying  you  with  them  until  that  time  when  I 
may  find  consolation  for  all  my  griefs  by  pouring 
them  at  all  times  into  your  bosom. 

Meantime,  I  see  my  future  impeded  in  every  way 
by  a  crowd  of  selfish  men,  who  think  only  of  their 
own  interest  ;  but  my  future  is  yours  only.  I  defend 
it  because  it  belongs  to  you.  You  know  me  very 
little,  Adèle,  you  little  understand  my  character,  for 
you  never  see  me  except  under  the  constraint  of  the 
presence  of  some  third  person.  But  wait,  I  implore 
you,  before  passing  judgment  on  me.  Some  one 
must  have  had  some  purpose  a  year  ago  in  inspir- 
ing you  with  unfavorable  impressions  concerning 
me,  and  I  —  what  I  should  most  earnestly  have 
asked  of  God,  and  do  ask  of  Him,  is  to  have  had 
you  always,  then  as  now,  the  invisible  witness  of 
all  my  actions,  whether  important  or  only  trivial. 

The  testimony  of  a  pure  conscience  is  very  dear 
to  me;  it  is  the  sole  ground  on  which  I  claim  to  be 
worthy  to  be  loved  by  you  ;  it  is  the  only  thing  about 

46 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

which  I  feel  pride.  All  other  things  are  smoke, 
about  which  I  care  little,  and  the  truth  is,  that  if  ever 
I  should  wish  for  what  they  call  fame,  it  would  be 
only  for  your  sake. 

I  must  end,  and  yet  I  have  many  things  still  to  say  ! 
Never  speak  of  yourself  again  to  me,  beloved  Adèle, 
as  an  ordinary  woman.  Be  as  humbly  modest  as 
you  will,  but  do  not  force  me  to  be  so  in  anything 
that  concerns  you. 

Adieu.  Keep  well.  I  embrace  you  tenderly.  Adieu, 
adieu.     Above  all,  keep  well. 

Your  Faithful  and  Respectful  Husband. 

Midnight,  Monday. 
I  cannot  read  a  word  you  write,  my  dear  Adèle, 
without  its  filling  me  with  joy  or  sadness,  and  some- 
times with  both  at  the  same  time.  That  is  the  effect 
produced  on  me  by  your  last  letter.  I  saw  that  my 
injustice  was  as  great  as  your  generosity,  and 
although  you  were  perhaps  a  little  too  severe  in  that 
part  of  your  letter  in  which  you  pointed  out  how 
wrong  I  had  been,  it  is  my  duty  to  acknowledge  my 
faults,  and  my  happiness  to  be  able  to  ask  j^ou  to 
forgive  them.  You  know,  my  Adèle,  that  if  I  some- 
times worry  you,  it  is  onl}^  because  I  so  dearl}^  love 
you,  alas!  and  I  worry  myself  a  great  deal  more. 
I  am  mad,  but  mad  for  love,  and,  my  dearest,  ought 
not  that  to  make  me  find  grace  in  your  sight?  All 
my  soul  is  consumed  in  loving  you.  You  are  my 
sole  thought,  and  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  find — I 
do  not  say  happiness — but  the  smallest  pleasure  when 
apart  from  you.     All  the  rest  is  hateful  to  me. 

47 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

The  end  of  your  letter,  Adèle,  greatly  moved  me. 
You  despair  of  our  mutual  happiness,  and  yet  3^ou 
say  that  it  is  in  my  hands.  Yes,  my  Adèle,  my 
beloved  promised  wife,  it  is  ;  and  I  am  certain,  if  you 
love  me,  to  attain  it,  or  else  die.  And  what,  after  all, 
are  the  obstacles  to  be  overcome?  Whose  will  will 
dare  to  oppose  mine  when  it  relates  to  you?  Do 
you  not  know  that  there  is  not  a  drop  of  blood  in  my 
veins  which  is  not  ready  to  flow  for  you?  And  can 
you  doubt  me  still?  Ah!  my  Adèle,  love  me  as  I 
love  you,  and  I  will  take  care  for  all  the  rest.  A 
strong  will  can  mould  destiny,  and  when  one  has 
learned  how  to  suffer,  one  has  learned  how  to  will. 
Besides,  the  man  who  risks  his  life  in  the  game  he 
plays  to  win  his  future,  is  almost  sure  to  win  in  the 
long  run;  and  I  .  .  .  will  marry  no  one  but  you, 
or  else  sleep  in  a  pine  coffin. 

We  need  so  little  to  make  us  happy,  Adèle!  A 
few  thousand  francs  a  year  and  a  yes,  granted  either 
with  indifference  or  from  paternal  affection.  Give  us 
but  these  two  things,  and  my  dream  of  happiness 
will  be  reality.     Does  it  really  seem  to  you  so  difficult? 

No,  my  Adèle,  you  are  mine,  and  I  am  yours, 
through  all  eternity.  Can  you  picture  to  yourself 
such  happiness?  Tell  me,  do  you  think  of  it  with 
all  the  rapture  and  delight  that  your  virginal  and 
tender  soul  is  so  fitted  to  experience  ?  Can  you  picture 
the  felicity  of  your  Victor  passing  his  whole  life  at 
your  feet,  pouring  all  his  griefs  into  your  bosom, 
enjoying  everything  because  3^ou  take  part  in  it, 
breathing  the  air  you  breathe,  loving  with  your 
heart,  living  only  in  the  life  you  live?     When,  dear- 

48 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

est,  I  think  of  the  dehciousness  of  our  Hves  being  in 
common,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  God  would 
not  have  given  me  the  power  to  imagine  such  happi- 
ness if  He  had  not  also  in  store  for  me  its  future  en- 
joyment. Ah!  you  were  horn  to  he  happy,  or  else  I 
shall  have  been  good  for  nothing  in  this  world. 

I  want  you  to  have  a  little  esteem  for  me,  Adèle. 
It  is  the  dearest  reward  of  all  I  may  be  able  to  do  to 
make  myself  more  worthy  of  you.  I  earnestly  thank 
you  for  the  assurance  you  have  given  me,  for  if  you 
did  not  esteem  me,  could  you  love  me  ;  and  if  you  did 
not  love  me,  what  should  I  do? 

Adieu  for  this  evening,  or,  rather,  for  this  night. 
Adieu,  my  beloved  Adèle  ;  it  is  very  late,  and  it  is 
bitterly  cold.  You  are  asleep  at  this  moment,  and 
nothing  will  make  you  conscious  of  the  burning  kiss 
that  your  poor  husband  is  about  to  press  upon  your 
lock  of  hair  in  your  absence.  It  will  not  always  be 
so  ;  and  some  day  his  kisses  will  awaken  you  softly. 
Adieu,  adieu  ;  sleep,  and  know  no  sorrow. 

Tuesday. 
This  morning  I  received  a  note  from  your  father. 
Then  I  may  see  you  this  evening,  Adèle  !  I  have 
thought  of  nothing  else  all  the  morning.  The 
thought  makes  me  happy,  especially  when  I  think 
that  the  same  thought  may  make  you  happy  too. 
My  happiness  would  be  perfect,  dear  Adèle,  if  I 
could  only  sometimes  see  you  alone,  and  enjoy  all 
the  charm  of  intimacy.  I  would  lay  before  you  all 
the  opinions,  for  which  you  seem  so  strongly  to 
blame  me  ;  it  is  only  you  who  could  make  me  change 
D  49 


The   Love   Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

them.  I  should  also  try  to  alter  some  of  the  ideas 
which  seem  to  me  unsuited  to  your  happy  nature. 

You  tell  me,  for  example,  that  you  are  not  able 
to  appreciate  poetic  talent.  This  assertion  is  so 
strange  to  me,  who  know  you  better  than  j^ou 
know  yourself,  that  I  should  laugh  at  it  if  I  felt 
like  laughing.  I  reply  (putting  myself,  you  must 
understand,  quite  out  of  the  question),  and  you  will 
certainly  not  do  me  the  injustice  to  think  that  any 
feeling  of  personal  vanity  enters  into  these  general 
reflections. 

In  two  words,  then,  poetry,  Adèle,  is  the  expres- 
sion of  all  goodness.  A  noble  soul  and  real  poetic 
talent  are  almost  always  inseparable.  You  see,  then, 
why  you  ought  to  comprehend  poetry.  It  comes 
from  the  soul,  which  can  manifest  its  nobleness 
by  a  good  action  as  well  as  by  a  fine  poem.  It  would 
demand  some  time  and  pains  to  develop  this  idea, 
but  you  may  see  how  in  a  quiet  talk  with  j^ou  alone 
I  could  reveal  to  your  own  heart  treasures  that  as 
yet  you  have  never  known.  This  happiness  is  for 
the  present  denied  to  me.  I  can  only  hope  for  it  here- 
after, together  with  many  more. 

Adieu,  m3"  beloved  Adèle  ;  think  of  me,  and  write 
me  a  very  long  letter,  though,  no  doubt,  it  will  seem 
to  me  very  short.  Let  your  husband  embrace  you 
tenderly.     Adieu,  adieu. 

Above  all  things,  never  speak  to  me  again  of 
wanting  to  iwrk,  etc.,  etc.  Every  time  you  touch 
on  that  subject  you  pain  me  greatlj^  Have  some 
confidence  in  my  strength.  It  is  m}^  place  to  work 
for  you,  and  the  happiness  of  creating  a  place  for 

50 


Adèle  Foucher  at  19 


C^i_^l^Oi  , 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hit^go 

you  in  life  belongs  to  me,  like  everything  else  that 
is  connected  with  you.  Adieu.  Write  me  a  very 
long  letter. 

Saturday,  October  20th. 

Behold  me,  alone  in  this  melancholy  apartment, 
counting  the  hours  that  divide  the  morning  from 
the  evening.  What  am  I  going  to  write  to  you? 
My  heart  is  full,  but  my  mind  is  a  blank.  My  de- 
sire is  to  speak  only  of  yourself,  of  our  love,  of  our 
hopes,  or  of  our  fears  ;  and  did  I  do  this,  words  would 
fail  me  in  which  to  express  my  thoughts.  But  it  is 
necessary  for  us  to  discuss  trivialities,  importunate 
nothings,  which  are  a  source  of  annoyance  to  you, 
and  for  that  reason  are  odious  to  me.  I  must  make 
it  plain  to  you  that  all  this  gossip  is  as  worthless 
as  the  idle  moments  that  it  occupies.  I  must  reas- 
sure 3^ou  and  console  you  in  regard  to  trifles  which 
ought  not  to  occasion  you  either  uneasiness  or  alarm. 

What  can  I  say  to  you  seriously,  my  Adèle?  That 
I  am  resolved  to  marry  you?  Ah,  well,  are  you 
ashamed  of  that,  or  are  you  in  doubt  about  it?  Per- 
haps you  are  afraid  to  own  that  3'ou  love  me?  If 
this  is  so,  it  is  because  you  do  not  love  me.  When 
one  really  loves,  one  is  proud  of  loving. 

Do  not  misunderstand  the  intention  of  these  words, 
dear  love;  I  do  not  intend  them  to  convey  the  idea 
that  you  ought  to  be  proud  of  the  object  of  your  af- 
fection— that  is  an  honor  which  I  am  far  indeed 
from  meriting — but  you  should  be  proud  of  possess- 
ing a  soul  capable  of  experiencing  love,  that  elevated, 
noble,  and  chaste  passion.  Of  all  the  passions  which 
torment  men  in  life,  it  is  the  only  one  that  is  eternal. 

51 


The   Love   Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

Love  in  its  true  and  divine  conception  creates  in  the 
being  who  experiences  it  all  good  qualities,  as  it 
does  in  thee;  or  else  it  creates  in  him  the  desire  to 
possess  them,  as  in  myself.  A  love  such  as  I  feel 
for  you,  my  Adèle,  raises  every  sentiment  above  the 
miserable  sphere  of  humanity.  It  is  a  union  with 
an  angel  who  draws  us  steadily  upward  towards 
heaven.  These  expressions  would,  perhaps,  strike 
an  ordinary  woman  as  extravagant;  but  yow  are 
created  to  understand  them,  since  it  is  you  yourself 
who  inspire  them. 

We  seem  to  have  travelled  far  from  the  absurd  gos- 
sip which  was  the  subject  of  our  discussion.  If  we 
were  not  pledged  to  each  other,  Adèle,  I  would  put 
an  end  to  it  by  my  own  withdrawal.  It  would  be 
the  Q>\Ay  means  of  closing  people's  mouths,  and  even 
so  it  might  not  be  successful.  In  our  case,  it  is  for 
you  to  determine  whether  such  a  step  is  necessary; 
if  you  decide  in  favor  of  it,  I  will  come  less  often, 
or  I  will  cease  to  come  altogether,  until  my  fate  shall 
be  decided.  Your  decision  in  favor  of  this  arrange- 
ment will  afford  me  convincing  proof  that  I  alone 
shall  suffer  in  consequence  of  it,  and  I  will  resign  my- 
self to  do  so  until  such  time  as  the  suffering  shall 
cease.  I  have  already  told  j^ou  that  only  two  great 
events  have  any  place  in  my  future  :  one  is  happiness, 
the  other  is  neither  happiness  nor  misery.  In  either 
case,  I  shall  no  longer  suffer. 

These  are  serious  and  solemn  thoughts  upon  which 
I  often  reflect,  but  which  I  make  the  subject  of  our 
c(Biversation  with  reluctance,  because  they  are  only 
ideas,  and  ideas,  so  long  as  they  are  not  put  into 

52 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor  Hugo 

action,  are  a  more  or  less  sonorous  assemblage  of 
words.  Some  day  my  last,  most  exquisite  hope,  that 
of  being  yours,  will  either  vanish  or  be  fulfilled; 
in  either  case  you  will  read  these  lines  again,  and 
you  will  then  be  able  to  judge  whether  I  have  spoken 
truly  or  falsely.  It  is  in  this  conviction  that  I  write 
them. 

I  see  that  I  am  digressing  at  each  moment  from 
the  subject  of  your  letter.  I  am  grateful  to  you, 
my  Adèle,  for  communicating  to  me  the  distress  oc- 
casioned you  by  unkind  reports  repeated  with  no 
less, malice  than  foolishness.  They  only  serve  to 
show  me  more  plainly  that  if  you  think  it  right  for 
me  to  continue  to  see  you,  I  must  use  my  utmost 
efforts  to  hasten  the  longed-for  day  of  our  marriage. 
This  would  in  itself  be  enough  to  supply  a  stimulus 
to  exertion,  even  if  my  own  impatience  was  not  far 
more  than  sufficient.  Alas!  is  it  possible  to  desire 
this  happiness  more  ardently  than  I  do? 

If  it  is  within  my  power  to  hasten  the  longed-for 
moment  by  abstaining  from  all  unworthy  action, 
I  shall  have  a  strong  motive  for  restraint.  There 
are  moments,  my  Adèle,  when  I  feel  myself  capable 
of  stooping  to  anything  which  would  enable  me  to 
reach  this  wished-for  end  more  quickly;  and  then 
I  recover  m3^self,  shocked  at  my  own  thoughts,  and 
I  ask  myself  whether  I  should  indeed  really  attain 
my  goal  if  I  reached  it  by  a  road  unworthy  of  my 
better  self.  Dear  love,  the  position  of  a  3^oung  man, 
independent  by  his  principles,  his  affections,  and  his 
desires,  who  is  nevertheless  dependent  upon  others 
by  reason  of  his  age  and  of  his  lack  of  fortune,  is  a 

53 


Tbe   Love   Letters   of    Victor  Hugo 

cruel  one.  Yes,  if  I  come  out  of  this  experience  as 
pure  as  I  entered  into  it,  I  shall  feel  that  I  am  en- 
titled to  some  measure  of  self-esteem. 

There  are  many  annoyances  that  I  am  forced  to 
disregard,  for  I  am  obliged  to  work  in  spite  of  con- 
tinual agitation.  Those  persons  are  greatly  mis- 
taken who  think  that  among  my  aims  there  is  a  wish 
for  glory,  for  celebrity,  or  for  any  of  the  trivialities 
with  which  it  is  possible  to  fill  a  life  that  is  empty  of 
love. 

Consider  all  my  words,  Adèle,  for  j^ou  wall  find  in 
them  an  overpowering  affection  ;  and  if  you  love  me 
in  return,  you  will  find  in  them  also  a  source  of 
gladness.  I  sometimes  envy  you,  in  that  you  are 
beloved  as  you  are  by  me.  As  for  you,  you  love  me 
VERY  MUCH,  and  that  is  all. 

For  w^hat  reason  can  your  parents  be  opposed  to 
our  intercourse,  when  they  intend,  as  they  have  done 
hitherto,  that  their  daughter  shall  be  my  wife?  I 
am  aware  that  they  would  prefer  to  have  my  father's 
consent;  in  many  respects  they  are  right  in  this 
matter,  and  I  will  do  everything  to  satisfy  them.  It 
certainly  will  not  be  I,  the  most  impatient  of  men, 
who  will  preach  patience.  All  my  life  was  settled 
at  Dreux.  Some  day  I  will  give  you  an  account  of 
that  journey  to  Dreux.  You  will  see  then  how  I  have 
always  loved  you,  even  when  I  believed  myself  for- 
gotten. 

Adieu,  dearest  love;  I  embrace  thee  tenderlj^ 

Victor. 

This  letter   is  very  grave,  my  own  Adèle,  and, 

54 


The   Love    Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

therefore,  I  add  one  line  to  tell  you,  and  to  repeat 
to  you,  how  much  I  love  you. 


The  Same  Night. 

This  letter  is  very  important,  Adèle;  for  the  im- 
pression that  it  makes  upon  you  will  decide  all  our 
happiness.  I  am  about  to  make  an  effort  to  collect 
some  calm  ideas,  and  I  shall  have  no  difficulty  in 
contending  with  sleep  to-night.  I  am  going  to  have 
a  serious  and  intimate  conversation  with  you,  and 
I  wish  earnestly  that  it  could  be  face  to  face,  for  then 
I  could  at  once  receive  your  answer  (which  I  shall 
expect  with  the  utmost  impatience),  and  I  should 
be  able  to  observe  in  your  countenance  the  effect  that 
my  words  may  produce  upon  you — that  effect  which 
will  decide  the  happiness  of  us  both. 

There  is  one  word,  Adèle,  which  we  seem,  up  to 
the  present  moment,  to  be  afraid  to  pronounce.  It 
is  the  word  love;  and  3^et  the  feeling  that  I  experi- 
ence for  3^ou  is  undoubtedly  genuine  love.  It  is  of 
importance  now  to  ascertain  whether  the  sentiment 
that  animates  you  is  likewise  love. 

Listen!  There  is  within  us  an  immaterial  being, 
in  exile,  as  it  were,  within  our  bodies,  which  will  sur- 
vive to  all  eternity.  This  being,  which  is  the  es- 
sence of  all  in  us  that  is  best  and  purest,  is  the  soul. 
It  is  the  soul  that  is  the  source  of  all  enthusiasm  and 
all  affection,  and  upon  it  depend  our  conceptions 
of  God  and  of  heaven. 

I  am  treating  of  matters  bej^ond  our  knowledge, 
because  it  is  necessary  to  do  so  in  order  to  make 
myself  fully  understood  ;  but,  lest    this  talk  should 

55 


The   Love   Letters   of  Victor   Hugo 

strike  you  as  unusual,  let  us  speak  of  things  which 
require  only  simple  but  elevated  language.  To 
continue.  The  soul,  being  superior  to  the  body, 
with  which  it  is  united,  would  remain  on  earth  in  an 
unbearable  isolation,  were  it  not  that  it  is  permitted 
to  choose  among  other  human  souls  a  compan- 
ion with  whom  it  may  share  the  misfortunes  of  life 
and  the  happiness  of  eternity.  When  two  souls, 
which  for  a  longer  or  a  shorter  time  have  sought  each 
other  amidst  the  crowd,  at  length  find  each  other  ; 
when  they  perceive  that  they  belong  to  each  other  ; 
when,  in  short,  they  comprehend  their  affinity,  then 
there  is  established  between  them  a  union,  pure 
and  ardent  as  themselves,  a  union  begun  upon  earth 
in  order  that  it  may  be  completed  in  heaven.  This 
union  is  love;  real  and  perfect  love,  such  love  as  very 
few  men  can  adequately  conceive  ;  love  which  is  a 
religion,  adoring  the  being  beloved  as  a  divinity; 
love  that  lives  in  devotion  and  ardor,  and  for  which 
to  make  great  sacrifices  is  the  purest  pleasure.  It 
is  such  love  as  this  that  you  inspire  in  me,  and  it  is 
such  love  that  you  will  some  day  assuredly  feel  for 
me,  even  though,  to  my  ever-present  grief,  you  do 
not  do  so  now.  Your  soul  is  formed  to  love  with  the 
purity  and  ardor  of  the  angels,  but  it  may  be  that 
only  an  angel  can  inspire  it  with  love,  and  when  I 
think  this  I  tremble. 

The  world,  Adèle,  does  not  understand  this  kind 
of  affection,  for  it  is  the  appointed  lot  only  of  those 
who  are  singled  out  either  for  happiness  or  misery; 
like  yourself,  in  the  former  instance,  or,  in  the  latter, 
like  me.  Love,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  is  either  a  car- 

56 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

nal  appetite  or  a  vague  fancy,  which  possession  ex- 
tinguishes or  absence  destro3^s.  That  is  why  it  is 
commonly  .said,  with  a  strange  abuse  of  words,  that 
passion  does  not  endure.  Alas  !  Adèle,  do  you  know 
that  passion  means  suffering  ?  And  do  you  seri- 
ously believe  that  there  is  any  suffering  in  the  ordi- 
nary love  of  men,  so  violent  in  appearance,  so  feeble 
in  reality?  No;  immaterial  love  is  eternal,  because 
that  part  of  our  being  which  experiences  it  cannot 
die.     It  is  our  souls  that  love,  and  not  our  bodies. 

Notice  here,  however,  that  nothing  should  be 
pushed  to  an  extreme.  I  do  not  intend  to  say  that 
the  body  has  no  place  in  this,  the  first  of  our  affec- 
tions. A  gracious  God  perceived  that  without  an 
intimate  personal  union  the  union  of  souls  could 
never  be  made  perfect,  because  two  persons  who  love 
each  other  must  spend  their  lives  in  a  community 
of  thought  and  action.  This  is,  therefore,  one  of 
the  ends  for  which  God  has  established  that  attrac- 
tion of  one  sex  towards  another  which,  in  itself, 
shows  that  marriage  is  divine.  Thus  it  is  that  in 
youth  personal  union  serves  to  ratify  the  union  of 
souls,  and  it  is  our  souls,  in  their  turn,  which,  be- 
ing ever  young  and  indestructible,  maintain  the 
union  of  persons  in  their  old  age  and  perpetuate  it 
after  death. 

Do  not  be  alarmed,  then,  Adèle,  in  regard  to  the 
duration  of  a  passion  which  it  is  not  within  the  power 
of  God  Himself  to  extinguish.  It  is  this  profound 
and  enduring  affection  that  I  feel  for  3'ou;  it  is  not 
based  on  personal  charms,  but  on  moral  qualities, 
and  it  is  an  affection  that  leads  to  heaven  or  to  hell, 

57 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

and  which  fills  life,  the  whole  of  life,  with  delight 
or  with  misery, 

I  have  laid  bare  my  soul  to  you;  I  have  spoken 
a  language  that  I  speak  only  to  those  who  can 
understand  it.  Inquire  of  yourself,  in  your  turn; 
ascertain  if  love  expresses  for  you  what  it  does  for 
me  ;  find  out  whether  your  soul  is  really  a  sister  soul 
to  mine.  Do  not  pause  to  consider  what  is  said 
by  a  foolish  world,  or  what  is  thought  by  the  little 
minds  that  surround  you;  search  your  own  heart, 
and  listen  to  its  voice.  If  the  thoughts  expressed 
in  this  letter  are  real  to  you,  if  the  afïection  that  you 
entertain  for  me  is  indeed  of  the  same  nature  as  that 
which  I  feel  for  you,  my  Adèle,  then,  indeed,  I  am 
thine  for  life,  thine  for  eternity.  If  you  fail  to  un- 
derstand my  love,  if  I  seem  to  you  extravagant, 
then  adieu.  Nothing  but  death  will  be  left  to  me, 
and  death  will  have  no  terrors  when  I  have  no  longer 
any  hope  upon  earth.  Do  not  imagine,  hovv-ever, 
that  I  should  take  my  own  life  without  regard  to 
others;  so  long  as  there  are  the  stricken  to  heal, 
and  sacred  combats  to  sustain,  suicide  is  the  act  of 
an  egoist  and  a  coward.  I  shall  take  care  that  the 
sacrifice  of  my  life  shall  be  as  useful  to  others  as 
it  will  be  sweet  to  myself. 

These  thoughts,  perhaps,  seem  to  you  a  little 
gloomy,  addressed  as  they  are  to  one  for  whom  my 
lips  have  always  worn  a  smile,  to  one  who  does  not 
know  the  tenor  of  my  habitual  reflections. 

Adèle,  I  tremble  in  saying  so,  but  I  believe  that 
you  do  not  love  me  with  such  love  as  I  offer  yon, 
and  only  a  love  such  as  that  can  satisfy  me.     If 

58 


The   Love    Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

you  loved  me  thus,  could  you  keep  asking  me,  as 
you  do,  if  I  have  confidence  in  your  conduct?  You 
do  this  so  lightly  that  it  seems  to  me  to  indicate  in- 
difference. Yet  you  are  offended  at  the  most  natural 
questions,  and  yoM  ask  me  whether  I  am  under  any 
apprehension  that  your  conduct  is  blâmable.  If 
you  loved  me  as  I  love  3^ou,  Adèle,  you  would  under- 
stand that  there  are  a  thousand  things  that  may  be 
done  without  criminality,  even  without  real  error, 
which,  nevertheless,  are  of  a  nature  to  alarm  the  sen- 
sitive jealousy  of  my  affection.  Such  love  as  I 
have  described  to  you  is  exclusive.  I  myself  wish 
for  nothing,  not  even  a  glance,  from  any  other  woman 
in  the  world;  but  I  desire  that  no  man  should  dare 
to  claim  anj^thing  from  the  woman  who  is  mine.  If 
I  desire  her  alone,  it  is  because  I  wish  for  her  wholly 
and  entirely.  A  glance,  a  smile,  a  kiss  from  you 
are  my  greatest  happiness;  do  you  really  believe 
that  I  can  patiently  endure  to  see  them  bestowed  on 
some  one  else  as  well?  Does  this  sensitiveness  alarm 
you?  If  you  loved  me,  it  would  delight  you.  Why 
do  you  not  feel  thus  towards  me? 

Love  is  jealous,  and  ingenious  in  self-torture  in 
proportion  as  it  is  pure  and  intense.  I  have  always 
found  it  so.  Some  years  ago,  I  remember,  I  shud- 
dered instinctively  when  your  little  brother,  who  was 
then  a  mere  child,  chanced  to  pass  the  night  with 
you.  Age,  experience,  observation  of  the  world, 
have  only  confirmed  this  disposition  in  me.  It  will 
be  my  undoing,  Adèle,  for  I  perceive  that,  while  it 
ought  to  increase  3^our  happiness,  it  does  but  render 
you  uneasy. 

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Speak  without  constraint.  Make  it  plain  whether 
you  wish  me  to  be  such  as  I  am  or  no.  My  future, 
as  well  as  yours,  depends  upon  this,  and  while  my 
fate  is  nothing  to  me,  yours  is  everything.  Re- 
member that,  if  you  do  not  love  me,  there  is  a  sure  and 
speedy  way  of  releasing  yourself  from  me  ;  you  have 
only  to  agree  to  it.  I  shall  not  oppose  you.  There 
is  one  kind  of  absence,  thanks  to  which  we  are  soon 
forgotten  by  those  who  regard  us  with  indiffer- 
ence. It  is  an  absence  from  which  there  is  no 
return. 

One  word  more.  If  this  long  letter  seems  to  you 
sad  and  depressed,  do  not  be  astonished;  your  own 
was  so  cold.  You  are  of  opinion  that  between  us 
passion  is  out  of  place!  Adèle,  ...  I  read  over 
again  some  old  letters  of  yours,  in  the  hope  of  con- 
solation, but  the  difference  between  the  old  and  the 
new  was  so  great  that  in  place  of  being  consoled 

.  .  .  Adieu. 

Friday,  October  26th. 

Your  little  note,  my  Adèle,  occasioned  me  a  joy 
which  I  will  not  try  to  describe.  When  it  is  a  long 
time  since  I  have  seen  you,  as  it  is  to-day,  I  am  sad, 
cast  down,  indifferent  to  everything,  oppressed  by  all 
things.  But  now,  it  is  only  necessary  for  me  to  read 
again  your  charming  note,  which  I  already  know 
by  heart,  to  feel  almost  happy.  Yes,  my  dearest 
Adèle,  j^our  own  assurance  is  all  that  is  needed  for 
me  to  believe  that  3^ou  love  me  as  I  love  j^ou;  you 
are  incapable  of  deceiving  either  yourself  or  me. 
It  does  not  cause  me  a  moment's  astonishment  that 
you  have  at  once  understood  such  unconventional 

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opinions  as  I  wrote  j'ou  regarding  the  things  of  this 
world.  How  should  you  not  understand  them,  3'ou 
who  were  created  on  purpose  to  inspire  them  and  to 
call  them  into  existence?  There  is  nothing  gen- 
erous, chaste,  or  noble  to  which  your  soul  can  be 
insensible;  for  it  is  itself  the  essence  of  all  that 
is  noble,  generous,  and  chaste.  Dear  Adèle,  these 
words  are  not  the  commonplace  flatteries  with  which 
the  deceitfulness  of  men  so  often  abuses  the  vanity 
of  women;  do  not  let  us  sink,  either  of  us,  to  such 
conditions.  It  is  a  profound  appreciation  of  3'our 
worth  alone  which  moves  me  to  speak  thus  to  you, 
and  the  onh^  defect  of  which  I  am  conscious  in  you 
is  ignorance  of  your  own  angelic  nature.  I  ear- 
nestly wish  that  you  could  fully  recognize  the  dig- 
nity of  your  own  character,  and  that  you  would  bear 
yourself  more  proudlj^  among  those  women,  vul- 
gar at  their  best,  who  have  the  honor  to  approach 
you,  and  who  seem  to  abuse  3'our  excessive  humil- 
ity, even  to  the  extent  of  believing  themselves  to 
be  3"our  equals,  if  not,  indeed,  3'our  superiors.  It  is 
needless  to  discuss  this  at  length,  but  3"ou  must  be- 
lieve, my  Adèle,  that  no  one  in  the  world  is  3"our 
superior,  and  that  3^ou  confer  a  favor  upon  all  other 
women  b3'^  condescending  to  treat  them  as  3'our 
equals. 

It  is  right  to  despise  perishable  advantages,  such 
as  beauty,  rank,  fortune,  etc.  ;  but  in  the  same 
measure  that  we  do  this,  we  should  respect  in  our- 
selves the  imperishable  gifts  of  the  soul.  The3^  are 
so  rare.  Vanity  is  as  contemptible  and  unreasonable 
as  proper  pride  is  just  and  useful.     The  latter  is  in 

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no  sense  external;  it  does  not  injure  others;  on  the 
contrary,  it  creates  a  sort  of  pit}^  which  inspires  us 
with  kindly  feelings.  It  elevates  the  soul  in  such 
wise  as  to  render  it  inaccessible  to  all  aspirations 
for  rank  or  fame.  When  one's  thoughts  are  wholly 
occupied  with  an  eternity  of  love  and  happiness, 
one  regards  all  the  things  of  this  earth  from  a  height 
at  which  they  seem  very  insignificant.  One  accepts 
prosperity  with  calmness,  one  confronts  misfortune 
with  serenity,  because  all  such  things  pass  away, 
and  are,  as  it  were,  only  accessaries  of  a  union 
which  remains. 

It  is  this  union,  my  adored  Adèle,  which  exists 
between  us,  and  it  would  be  impossible  for  you  to 
comprehend  the  intoxication,  the  delirium,  with  which 
I  look  forward  to  the  day  w^hen  that  union,  ratified 
in  public,  will  permit  me  to  possess  you  altogether, 
and  to  belong  entirely  to  you.  Oh!  my  Adèle,  mj^ 
wife,  what  does  it  not  mean,  even  now,  to  be  able 
to  speak  of  this  immense  happiness,  to  form  en- 
chanting projects  for  the  future,  to  dwell  together 
in  hope,  to — oh,  God!  in  the  presence  of  that  future 
what  are  all  the  troubles  of  the  present  time? 

Adieu;  I  embrace  thee  tenderly. 

Thy  Husband  for  Eternity. 

I  have  just  read  your  letter,  and  I  add  a  word  more, 
my  Adèle,  to  thank  3^ou  for  it.  How  much  happi- 
ness I  owe  you  !  Yet,  why  are  your  letters  always 
so  short?  You  complain  of  continual  preoccupa- 
tion; if  it  were  otherwise,  my  Adèle,  you  would  not 
love  me.     Are  you  aware  that  in  the  long  eighteen 

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months  in  which  I  did  not  see  you  I  did  not  pass  a 
moment  without  thinking  of  you?  Do  you  reahze 
that  you  are  my  end  and  aim  in  all  I  do,  and  that 
without  that  aim  I  should  do  nothing?  Whenever 
I  am  called  upon  to  endure  mental  grief  or  physical 
suffering,  I  represent  to  myself  that  it  is  in  honor 
of  you,  or  for  love  of  you.  And  then  everything 
seems  sweet  to  me.  What  matters  all  else  if  my 
dearest  Adèle  is  only  gracious  enough  to  love  me  ? 
Whenever  this  becomes  her  only  occupation,  I  shall 
be  the  happiest  of  men. 

Saturday,  November  24,  1 82 1. 

I  stand  in  need  of  a  lively  faith,  Adèle,  to  enable 
me  to  believe  that  this  correspondence  does  not  weary 
you.  This  is  the  last  time  that  so  long  a  letter 
shall  follow  so  short  a  note.  Beneath  the  reasons 
that  you  give  me  I  have  discovered  another,  which 
they  are  intended  to  conceal;  it  is  the  effort  experi- 
enced in  writing  of  which  you  ought  to  complain 
rather  than  the  difficulties  which  prevent  3^ou  from 
doing  so;  then  you  would  at  least  be  sincere.  You 
appear  to  attach  importance  to  relinquishing  a  visit. 
I  do  not  feel,  Adèle,  that  this  kind  of  loss  involves 
any  sacrifice.  I  never  dreamed  up  to  this  moment 
of  boasting  of  all  the  sacrifices  in  this  respect  which 
I  make  daily  in  order  to  see  you  or  to  write  to 
you.  It  is  true,  however,  that  if  I  have  not  enu- 
merated them,  it  was  because  they  cost  me  noth- 
ing. .  .  . 

My  Adèle,  I  have  just  read  over  the  beginning 
of  this  letter,  and  I  am  dissatisfied  with  it,  because 

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I  fear  that  it  will  occasion  dissatisfaction  to  you. 
It  is  impossible  for  me  to  remain  long  out  of  humor 
with  you,  even  when  I  am  in  the  right.  I  am  ready, 
therefore,  dear  Adèle,  to  ask  your  pardon  for  hav- 
ing found  fault  with  you.  Nevertheless,  have  I  not 
a  legitimate  cause  for  complaint?  Adèle,  I  do  not 
ask  you,  since  you  have  only  brief  periods  of  leisure, 
to  write  me  long  letters  all  at  once;  but  it  is  im- 
possible that  you  should  not  find  time  each  day  to 
write  at  least  a  page,  so  that  at  the  end  of  several 
days  your  letters  would  be  of  a  satisfactory  length, 
without  fatigue  to  j^ourself .  I  make  this  suggestion 
to  you  in  good  faith,  because  I  believe  that  you  seek 
it  in  the  same  spirit.  No,  dear  love,  I,  who  have 
so  much  pleasure  in  writing  to  you,  cannot  believe 
that  what  is  so  sweet  to  me  is  wearisome  to  you, 
or  that  what  makes  me  so  happy  you  find  a  burden. 
That  would  be  a  proof  that  you  do  not  love  me,  and 
I  will  never  willingly  admit  such  an  idea.  I  am 
in  so  much  need  of  loving  and  of  believing  myself 
loved.  Forgive  me,  out  of  youi  kindness,  for  the 
first  lines  of  this  letter.  Remember  that  a  doubt 
in  regard  to  your  affection  tortures  me  much  more 
than  it  can  distress  you.  If  you  realized  how  much 
the  slightest  alarm  causes  me  to  suffer,  you  would 
avoid  giving  occasion  for  it,  were  it  only  from  pity. 
Let  us  grant  pardon  to  each  other,  then,  and  do  thou 
embrace  me. 

I  obey  3^ou,  my  dearest  Adèle,  and  I  do  not  work 
at  night.  This  morning  I  rose  earlj^  in  order  to  write 
to  you.  Thursda3^  evening,  when  I  returned,  I  was 
tempted  to  sit  up  in  order  to  tell  you  all  that  was  in 

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my  heart.  It  would  be  impossible  for  you  to  im- 
agine what  an  indefinable  effect  that  sight  of  you 
produced  upon  me;  to  find  you  still  up  and  expect- 
ing us  at  nearly  midnight  occasioned  me  at  one 
and  the  same  moment  the  liveliest  pleasure  and 
the  keenest  pain.  On  the  one  hand,  the  sight  of  you 
was  suf&cient  in  itself  to  make  me  perfectly  happy, 
but  it  surprised  me  the  more  deliciously  because 
I  could  not  help  believing  that  it  was,  perhaps,  a 
little  for  my  sake  that  you  had  resigned  yourself 
to  so  late  a  vigil.  On  the  other  hand,  the  idea  of 
my  poor  Adèle  wearying  herself  in  solitude,  while 
I  was  supposed  to  be  amusing  myself,  filled  me  with 
remorse.  I  thought  that  you  might  have  been  ill, 
that  you  in  your  turn  might  have  suffered,  even 
that  you  might  have  been  cold. 

Dear  love,  I  reproach  myself  for  the  moments 
spent  at  the  café,  because  they  were  so  many  mo- 
ments of  sadness  to  you.  I  longed  to  compensate 
for  those  moments  with  ten  years  of  my  life,  and 
when  I  was  forced  to  leave  you  so  soon,  without 
being  able  to  thank  you,  or  to  inform  myself  as  to 
your  suffering,  and  without  being  able  to  press  you 
to  my  heart,  then,  Adèle,  it  seemed  to  me  that  we 
were  violently  parted;  and  for  the  thousandth  time 
I  cursed  the  obstacles  which  separate  me  from  my 
wife,  from  her  who  belongs  to  me.  I  am  your  hus- 
band, and  yet  I  was  obliged  to  part  from  3'ou  with- 
out an  embrace,  without  a  word;  and  if  I  should 
die  to-morrow,  Adèle,  another  would  obtain  all  that 
is  denied  to  me,  another  would  possess  those  rights 
which  I  am  forbidden  to  enjoy,  another  ...  It 
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The    Love   Letters   of   Victor  Hugo 

seems  to  me  that  this  unbearable  idea  would  make 
my  blood  boil  in  my  veins  after  death. 

It  is  not  likely  that  such  a  thing  will  come  to  pass  ; 
but  who  can  foresee  the  future?  On  what  does  life 
depend?  Let  but  some  man  tread  on  my  foot,  or 
look  at  me  insultingly,  to  -  day,  and  who  knows 
where  I  shall  be  to-morrow?  If  I  considered  only 
myself  I  should  assuredly  cling  very  little  to  a  life 
at  once  widowed  and  orphaned.  But  when  the  re- 
membrance of  you  returns  to  me  with  hope,  Adèle, 
then  I  freely  admit  that  I  fear  death.  It  would  be 
horrible  to  me  to  die  without  having  possessed  you, 
without  having  belonged  to  you.  I  ought,  perhaps, 
to  conceal  my  lack  of  courage  ;  it  is  the  correct  thing 
to  despise  one's  life  ;  but  to  lose  life  would  be  to  lose 
you,  and  it  would  be  as  sweet  to  me  to  follow  you 
into  a  better  world  as  it  would  be  terrible  to  me  to 
leave  this  one  without  having  possessed  you. 

I  do  not  know  what  I  write;  I  am  oppressed  by 
gloomy  thoughts,  the  cause  of  which  I  do  not  un- 
derstand. Do  not  be  surprised  at  this.  There  is  a 
certain  frame  of  mind  in  which  a  vague  sadness 
overpowers  us,  a  sadness  that  the  soul  does  not  com- 
prehend, and  against  which  it  has  no  protection. 
The  remembrance  of  past  misfortunes,  or  the  pre- 
sentiment of  evils  to  come,  is  as  the  smoke  of  a 
fire  that  has  just  been  extinguished,  or  is  on  the 
point  of  bursting  into  flames.  These  remembrances 
and  these  forebodings  pass  like  clouds  between  us 
and  our  ideas;  the}^  assume  the  undefined  forms  of 
the  future  or  of  the  past  ;  for  in  the  world  of  imagina- 
tion, as  in  the  world  of  reality,  all  that  is  distant  is 

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vague.  The  soul  believes  itself  to  be  suffering,  and 
it  is  so  indeed.  All  its  joyous  imaginations  fade 
away;  all  sad  impressions  are  intensified.  But  let 
happiness  on  a  sudden  reappear,  the  clouds  disperse, 
all  things  are  restored  to  their  true  shape  and  color, 
and  we  are  surprised  at  our  own  depression. 

This  is  what  will  happen  to  me  on  the  day  that  I 
see  you  again.  I  shall  no  longer  think  of  anything 
but  the  happiness  of  being  near  you,  and  the  hope 
of  being  some  day  altogether  yours. 

But,  Adèle,  you  are  frightened,  you  say,  at  the 
idea  of  marrying  so  young  a  man  ;  you  fear  that 
1  shall  some  day  repent  having  engaged  myself,  etc., 
etc.  It  distresses  me  to  repeat  these  cruel  expres- 
sions. I  do  not  believe  I  have  ever  given  3^ou  cause 
to  think  me  inconstant.  You  say  that  you  cannot 
hope  to  restore  me  all  that  I  have  lost.  Reflect  a 
little,  Adèle,  and  ask  yourself  if  you  really  think 
you  are  not  sure  of  being  everything  to  me.  It  is 
you  alone  who  can  give  me  back  what  I  have  lost, 
but  you  will  restore  me  all,  and  more  than  all.  .  .  . 

That  last  expression  escaped  me,  and  I  ought  per- 
haps to  w^ithdraw  it;  but  it  is  only  the  truth  that 
love  such  as  I  feel  for  you  is  greater  than  all  other 
affections,  and  that  a  wife  is  more  even  than  a  mother. 

Alas!  am  I  right  to  say  all  this?  But  why  should 
I  hide  from  j^ou  any  one  of  my  thoughts?  God 
knows  that  no  mother  has  ever  been  beloved  as  I 
have  loved  my  own  noble  mother  ;  God  knows,  also, 
that  no  wife  has  ever  been  adored  as  I  adore  mine. 

I  sometimes  fear,  my  dearest,  that  you  have  not 
wholly  pardoned  my  mother's  memory.     I  wish  that 

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you  had  known  her;  I  wish  that  she  could  have 
known  you.  For  a  long  time  she  caused  me  great 
unhappiness,  because  she  carried  to  an  extreme  her 
desire  to  see  me  happy.  Her  only  fault  lay  in  her 
failure  to  understand  and  to  appreciate  the  beauty 
of  your  character;  but  she  w^as,  nevertheless,  en- 
tirely worthy  to  understand  it.  Ah!  why  is  she 
lost  to  me  and  to  3"ou?  Some  day,  perhaps,  we 
shall  all  be  united.  M}^  prolonged  grief,  my  deep 
depression,  had  begun  to  move  her;  she  had  per- 
ceived that  everything  else  failed  to  interest  me, 
and  she  would  certainly  not  have  refused  me  the 
only  happiness  that  life  had  to  offer  me.  More- 
over, her  reluctance  to  my  marriage  was  wholly  in- 
dependent of  your  personality,  and  she  had  too  much 
respect  for  her  son  not  to  esteem  highly  the  person 
to  whom  he  was  so  deeply  and  so  firmly  attached. 
Some  day  we  shall  be  happy  with  her  ;  in  the  mean- 
while our  faith  in  the  eternal  remains  with  us.  .  .  . 
I  will  not  finish  what  I  have  just  written.  It  is 
sweet  to  me  to  speak  of  my  mother  to  my  wife,  but 
it  is  profoundly  sad. 

I  have,  however,  many  things  still  to  say  to  yoM. 
My  dearest  Adèle,  3^our  distraction  in  prayer  does 
not  in  the  least  amuse  me,  but  it  has  touched  me 
very  much,  and  it  renders  me  happy  and  thankful. 
Sometimes  I  venture  to  imagine  that  I  am  every- 
thing to  3^ou,  and  then  my  heart  is  filled  with  a 
ro^^al  pride  and  an  angelic  felicity.  All  that  you 
feel,  I  m3^self  experience,  and  this  continual  dis- 
traction, which  only  makes  us  more  in  S3^mpathy, 
compensates  me  for  ever3^thing  else.     All  my  life 

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is  one  long  prayer  on  your  behalf.  I  pray  for  the 
welfare  of  her  in  whom  my  own  welfare  is  bound  up. 
Adieu,  my  adored  Adèle  ;  think  of  j^our  husband, 
and  remember  that  I  stand  in  need  of  a  long  an- 
swer. Forgive  me  for  the  first  part  of  this  letter  in 
consideration  of  its  close.  Adieu;  tell  me  in  detail 
of  your  health.     I  embrace  thee  tenderly. 

Thine  Faithfully. 

Friday,  December  yth. 

You  see  that  I  am  faithful  to  my  promise,  Adèle, 
and  it  is,  indeed,  no  effort  to  me  to  be  so  ;  for  when  I 
have  not  seen  you  for  four  daj^s,  what  can  give  me 
greater  pleasure  than  employing  myself  in  writing 
to  you?  I  have  very  little  idea  of  what  I  am  going 
to  write.  I  can  only  express  m3^self  when  I  see  j^ou, 
and  when  I  write  to  you  I  do  not  see  3^ou.  In  j'our 
absence  all  mj^  thoughts  are  sad,  and  if  I  wish  to  re- 
lieve myself  from  the  present  that  oppresses  me,  I 
am  obliged  to  transport  myself  in  memory  to  the  last 
time  that  I  saw  you,  or  else  in  hope  to  the  next  time 
that  I  shall  see  you  again.  I  recall  what  you  said  to 
me,  how  you  smiled  at  me,  and  I  endeavor  not  to  com- 
plain when  I  imagine  how  you  will  speak  to  me  and 
smile  at  me  once  more. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  dear  love,  you  cannot  imagine 
the  multitude  of  cares  that  assail  me.  Aside  from 
my  own  sorrows  and  my  domestic  annoyances,  I 
am  forced  to  endure  all  the  vexations  of  literarj^  spite. 
I  do  not  know  what  evil  genius  drove  me  into  a 
career  in  which  every  step  is  hindered  by  some  secret 
enmity  or  some  base  rivalry.     This  is  pitiable,  and 

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it  makes  me  feel  shame  for  the  profession  of  letters. 
It  is  discouraging  to  awake  each  morning  exposed 
to  the  paltry  attacks  of  a  mob  of  enemies,  whom  one 
has  never  done  anything  to  injure,  and  whom,  indeed, 
for  the  most  part  one  has  never  seen.  I  should  like 
to  inspire  you  with  a  respect  for  this  great  and  noble 
profession  of  letters,  but  I  am  constrained  to  admit 
that  it  affords  a  singular  study  in  the  various  forms 
of  human  baseness.  It  is,  as  it  were,  a  great  slough, 
into  which  one  must  descend,  unless,  indeed,  one  has 
wings  by  which  one  is  enabled  to  rise  above  its  mire. 
I  myself  do  not  possess  these  pinions,  but  I  am  a  man 
apart — isolated  by  an  inflexible  character  and  in- 
corruptible principles — and  I  am  sometimes  tempted 
to  laugh  at  all  the  little  traps  that  are  laid  for  me; 
but  more  often,  to  the  shame  of  my  philosophy  be 
it  spoken,  I  am  moved  to  anger.  You  will  perhaps 
think,  dear  Adèle,  and  with  some  show  of  reason, 
that  I  ought  to  be  insensible  to  such  trivialities,  in 
the  presence  of  the  important  interests  that  occupy 
me;  but  my  present  irritable  condition  is  exact- 
ly what  renders  them  unbearable.  Things  which 
would  be  but  a  passing  annoyance,  if  I  were  hap- 
py, are  just  now  unendurable;  I  really  suffer  when 
these  miserable  insects  come  and  light  upon  my 
wounds.  Do  not  let  us  discuss  them  further;  it  is 
treating  them  with  too  much  consideration  ;  thej^  are 
not  worth  the  pen  that  I  waste  or  the  paper  that  I 
spoil  in  speaking  of  them. 

Saturday,   December  8th. 

You  have  reason  to  scold  me,  dear  love;  I  have 
been  almost  stupefied  the  entire  week,  preoccupied 

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as  I  was  by  the  remembrance  of  that  deUghtful  even- 
ing spent  with  you  at  the  ball.  I  say  delightful, 
notwithstanding  that  I  was  very  jealous,  and  very 
much  exasperated.  I  wish  you  would  dress  as  you 
were  then  dressed,  only  for  me.  You  see  how  ex- 
travagant I  am,  but  do  not  laugh  at  it,  for  if  you 
laugh,  it  will  be  an  acknowledgment  that  you  do  not 
love  me  as  I  love  j^ou.  When  I  see  your  beauty  so 
adorned  for  others,  I  lose  my  head,  and  I  could  not 
give  you  any  idea  what  infernal  emotions  I  go  through. 
I  am  so  insignificant  beside  all  those  young  men 
who  dance  so  well!  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  so 
much  nobleness  and  simplicity  in  your  character, 
that  it  reassures  me  against  the  coquetr}^  which  your 
mirror  might  inspire,  and  beauty  is  so  great  a  gift 
when  modesty  and  beauty  are  united;  you  are  so 
charming  in  your  grace  and  innocence.  Ah,  my 
adored  Adèle,  I  entreat  3^ou  preserve  always  that  an- 
gelic virtue  without  which  the  dignity  of  the  soul  and 
the  chastit}^  of  love  are  forever  lost  !  Remember  that 
you  are  my  type  of  perfection  upon  earth,  that  it  is  3'ou 
who  have  fulfilled  the  ideal  of  womanl3^  virtue  that 
my  highest  imagination  can  create,  and  that  in  you 
I  find  realized  the  companion  of  my  life  as  she 
was  first  revealed  to  me  in  the  dreams  of  my  youth. 
These  are  not  idle  words.  Consider  what  an  influ- 
ence you  have  exercised  over  me  ever  since  I  have 
known  you  ;  think  of  what  I  have  done,  of  what  I  do 
now,  of  what  I  shall  always  do  to  keep  myself  worthy 
of  you  in  the  longed-for  day  of  our  marriage,  and  you 
will  see  how  high  a  place  you  occupy  in  my  esteem 
and  affection. 

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My  adored  Adèle,  when  I  transport  myself  in  mem- 
ory to  those  short  moments,  during  our  return  from 
the  ball,  in  which  I  held  you  in  my  arms,  I  am  beside 
myself.  Why  must  I  be  separated  from  you?  What 
would  it  matter  to  the  whole  world  if  your  entire  life 
expended  itself  thus  in  my  arms?  What  harm  did 
we  commit?  Adèle,  explain  to  me,  I  beg  you,  how 
I  could  have  done  wrong  in  holding  my  wife  to  my 
heart?  Why  should  these  moments  end?  And  why 
should  a  man,  who  has  two  arms  and*  a  will  of  his 
own,  allow  such  moments  to  be  snatched  from  him? 
Who  knows  if  they  will  ever  return?  And  what  hu- 
man power  can  restore  a  lost  happiness?  .  .  . 

I  perceive  that  I  am  wandering.  Have  pity  on  my 
folly,  you  who  constitute  all  my  happiness  and  all 
my  joy.  Adieu,  adieu  ;  I  am  but  a  simpleton.  Pity 
me,  and  love  me;  my  soul,  my  heart,  my  life,  all  is 
thine.     I  embrace  thee. 

Thy  Husb.\nd. 

You  see  that  I  have  written  you  at  length,  more 
so  even  than  you  asked.  If  this  pleases  you,  j^ou 
can  give  me  a  proof  of  it  by  writing  to  me  at  the  same 
length  in  your  turn.  Adieu,  adieu,  I  do  not  know 
whether  you  will  be  able  to  read  what  I  have 
written. 

Saturday,  December  8th,  Midnight. 

I  have  just  read  your  letter  ;  it  has  moved  me  pro- 
foundly, and,  as  I  hope  to  see  you  to-morrow,  I  feel 
the  need  of  answering  it  at  once.  Pardon  me,  dear 
Adèle,  if,  in  order  to  do  this,  I  begin  by  disobeying 
you,     I  promise  you  that  this  shall  be  the  last  time. 

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If  my  habit  of  working  at  night  is  displeasing  to 
you,  that  is  cause  for  me  to  abandon  it.  Moreover, 
your  reasons  are  good,  and  if  my  Adèle  deigns  to 
take  an  interest  in  my  health,  that  is  enough  to 
render  it  precious  to  me.  Work  done  at  night  is 
exhausting;  but  the  enforced  idleness  of  sleepless- 
ness is  little  less  fatiguing.  But,  since  you  wish 
it,  I  will  try  again  to  sleep  as  much  as  possible; 
all  the  more  easily  because  my  sleeping  moments 
are  those  in  which  I  am  happiest,  for  they  are  al- 
ways filled  by  delightful  dreams  which  bear  me  to 
your  side.  Ah!  when  will  this  happiness  be  some- 
thing more  than  a  dream?  I  promise  you,  then, 
Adèle,  to  work  no  more  at  night,  except  in  extraor- 
dinary cases.  I  should  be  guilty  of  infringing  upon 
this  promise,  at  the  ver}^  moment  I  make  it,  were  it 
not  that  writing  to  you  is  not  work. 

You  are  afraid,  then,  Adèle,  that  I  enjoy  only  so- 
ciety, and  that,  therefore,  my  domestic  life  will  some 
daj^  be  burdensome  to  me.  You  do  not  reflect,  my 
beloved  Adèle,  that  when  my  domestic  life  is  filled 
by  you,  all  my  happiness  will  be  centred  in  it.  What 
can  be  more  attractive  to  me  than  to  pass  all  my 
hours  of  pleasure,  of  repose,  or  of  labor,  beside  my 
wife?  Dear  love,  ought  I  to  be  forced  to  repeat  this 
for  the  hundredth  time? 

But  at  present,  what  a  difference!  What  is  there 
to  attach  me  to  my  own  home,  where,  to  the  weari- 
ness of  solitude,  are  added  memories  of  very  recent 
sorrow?  It  is  just  because  I  have  once  enjoyed  the 
sweetness  of  family  life,  my  Adèle,  that  this  house 
is  now  so  mournful  to  me.     What  domestic  life  is 

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possible  to  an  unmarried  man  who  is  an  orphan? 
For  I  am  an  orphan,  and  perhaps  I  am  even  more 
to  be  pitied  than  if  I  were  so  altogether. 

You  see,  dear  love,  that  if  you  give  me  your  con- 
fidence, mine  is  entirely  yours  ;  there  are  no  recesses 
in  my  heart  that  are  not  known  to  you;  and,  if  it 
please  God,  there  shall  never  be  anything  secret  in 
my  life  of  which  you  are  in  ignorance;  for  be  very 
sure  that  all  my  secrets  will  be  always  of  a  nature 
to  be  known  to  you. 

On  the  other  hand,  you  are  very  much  mistaken 
if  you  think  that  a  society  life  could  please  me  more 
than  a  domestic  life,  even  if  the  latter  were  very  little 
attractive.  On  the  contrary,  although  my  own  room 
does,  indeed,  seem  sad,  the  streets  and  the  salons  are 
hateful  to  me.  I  flee  from  all  distractions;  I  abhor 
les  plaisirs.  The  life  of  a  single  man  is  altogether 
odious  to  me  ;  it  means  isolation,  both  at  home  and 
abroad.  I  long  only  for  the  happiness  of  a  home, 
for  the  pleasures  of  family  ties;  and  whenever  that 
longed-for  time  comes,  I  shall  have  nothing  to  wish 
for,  dear  love,  if  our  own  circle  contains  as  much 
happiness  for  you  as  for  me. 

You  would  not  be  alarmed  if  you  knew  how  my 
liberty  oppresses  me,  and  with  what  impatience  I 
await  the  time  when  a  sweet  bondage  shall  unite 
my  days  to  yours.  In  the  meantime,  except  for 
the  brief  and  happy  moments  that  I  spend  with  you, 
all  my  hours  are  equally  odious  to  me,  even  more, 
perhaps,  when  I  am  in  company  than  when  1  am 
alone.  Alone,  I  can  at  least  think  of  you  undis- 
turbed. 

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I  do  not  like  to  give  my  attention  to  any  one  be- 
side yourself  in  these  letters,  Adèle.  An  intercourse 
so  intimate  and  so  sacred  ought  not  to  be  interrupted 
by  the  affairs  of  others.  Yet  it  seems  necessary  to 
speak  of  your  uncle  and  your  aunt.  I  find  myself 
unable  to  like  either  the  one  or  the  other.  Your 
aunt's  remarks,  in  particular,  are  singularly  dis- 
pleasing to  me.  I  fail  to  see  in  what  respect  our 
conduct  is  unusual  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  nor  do  I 
understand  why  any  one  should  criticise  the  privilege 
that  I  enjoy  of  passing  a  couple  of  hours  each  week 
in  your  society.  Does  it  seem  to  be  necessary,  then, 
that  our  too  brief  interviews  should  be  devoted  to 
the  entertainment  of  outsiders,  and  that  I  must  make 
myself  agreeable  to  some  indifferent  person,  while 
some  one  else  does  the  same  to  you?  This  is,  on  the 
face  of  it,  foolish  in  the  extreme,  unless,  indeed,  I 
am  permitted  to  see  you  more  often,  at  times  when 
no  one  intrudes  upon  us,  if  such  a  course  is  insisted 
upon  for  the  days  that  you  receive.  Even  then  this 
prescribed  etiquette  is  absurd.  I  am  no  longer  a  child. 
I  have  seen  the  world,  and  I  honestly  believe  myself 
to  be  exceedingly  reserved.  I  am,  and  I  wish  to  be, 
uninteresting  and  dull,  in  fact,  a  nonentity,  for  the 
world  at  large,  because  you  are  the  only  person  for 
whom  I  am  able  to  expend  all  my  faculties  of  thought 
and  emotion.  In  the  same  measure  that  I  am  ardent 
and  expansive  to  you,  I  am  cold  and  silent  to  others. 
If  I  am  forced  to  assume  this  rôle  towards  my  own 
wife,  nobody  will  be  the  gainer  bj^  it  ;  I  myself  shall 
certainly  be  less  agreeable,  and  the  effort  involved 
will  be  really  painful  to  me.     Remember,  dear  Adèle, 

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that  for  a  month  I  have  seen  you  every  other  day, 
and  in  a  dehghtf ul  intimacj^  Do  you  think  this  habit 
so  easy  to  lose?  But  they  pretend  that  I  am  doing 
you  an  injury.  Such  words  as  these  reduce  me  to 
silence,  but  they  impair  my  very  existence. 

Dear  Adèle,  continue,  I  entreat  you,  to  share  all 
your  interests  with  me.  You  do  not  know  in  what 
a  touching  manner  these  proofs  of  your  confidence 
affect  me.  It  is  sweet  to  me  to  read  your  beautiful 
soul,  to  study  3^our  noble  heart.  No  kindness  of 
heart  is  necessary,  dear  love,  for  me  to  tell  you — and 
to  tell  you  with  delight — my  true  opinion  of  you.  I 
cannot  admit  that  I  could  feel  more  love  for  a  young 
girl  whose  conduct  was  different  from  yours,  for  I 
cannot  conceive  of  a  love  more  ardent  than  mine  for 
you;  neither  can  I  imagine  axvy  conduct  more  ad- 
mirable than  yours;  and  if  I  were  to  hear  of  some 
one  who  acted  in  all  respects  as  you  do,  I  should  kiss 
the  ground  under  her  feet. 

Adieu,  my  beloved  Adèle  ;  adieu,  my  wife.  I  em- 
brace you  with  reverence.  Tell  me  of  your  health. 
I  would  that  I  could  preserve  it  at  the  expense  of  my 
own,  or  of  my  life  itself. 

Tuesday,  December  nth,  9.30  p.m. 
It  is  impossible,  my  Adèle,  for  me  to  seek  sleep 
before  having  answered  you.  Oh,  no!  you  are  not 
to  blame,  for  you  could  never  think  for  one  moment 
that  I  am  capable  of  changing;  Adèle,  you  could 
never  even  dream  it.  I  can  only  believe  that  dreams 
themselves,  in  this  respect,  must  tell  us  lies.  I  forget 
you  !  I  cease  to  love  you,  to  adore  you,  to  idolize  you 

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unceasingly  !  My  darling,  such  an  idea  did  not  find 
a  resting-place,  even  for  a  moment,  in  your  mind? 
Is  it  not  so?  Your  Victor  would  feel  the  most  profound 
distress  if  such  a  suspicion  ever  .  .  .  But  no,  it  can- 
not be,  and  I  am  mad  to  defend  myself  from  such  a 
reproach.  To  tell  me  that  I  can  ever  cease  to  love 
you  is  to  tell  me  that  I  have  no  soul,  and  that  there 
is  no  God.  And  what  other  human  creature  would 
then  be  worthy  of  a  man  who  had  been  once  hon- 
ored by  your  love?  Could  he,  to  whom  you  had 
graciously  inclined,  stoop  in  his  turn  to  a  mere  woman 
of  fashion?  And  if  you,  a  pure  and  heavenly  minded 
young  girl,  cherish  some  esteem  for  this  man  who  is 
yet  so  unworthy  of  you,  for  this  Victor  who  is  so  hon- 
ored in  being  your  husband,  how  can  you  doubt  for 
a  moment  that  it  would  be  his  greatest  happiness 
to  sacrifice  a  thousand  lives,  and,  if  it  were  possible, 
a  thousand  eternities,  for  a  single  one  of  your  glances? 
Oh,  my  Adèle,  what  being  upon  earth  can  offer 
you  a  devotion  equal  to  mine?  Are  not  all  my  words, 
all  my  thoughts,  all  my  devotions  addressed  to  you? 
Have  I  ever  experienced  a  joy  which  did  not  come 
from  you?  Have  you  not  been  a  sharer  in  all  my 
sorrows?  Are  you  not  my  soul,  my  life,  my  heaven? 
Alas  !  I  see  God  himself  in  you  ;  I  love  him  in  you, 
because  I  can  see  and  love  no  other  thing  than  you. 
It  may  be  that  these  are  blasphemies;  but  forgive 
me!  It  cannot  be  an  offence  towards  God  to  adore 
one  of  His  angels.  He  would  not  have  created  you 
so  perfect  if  he  had  not  intended  that  the  man  who 
gives  you  his  life  might  forget  Him  sometimes  to 
think  only  of  you. 

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Adieu  for  this  evening,  my  adored  Adèle.  Why 
cannot  I  say  to  you  all  that  oppresses  my  heart? 
Why  cannot  I  find  words  to  express  my  love?  Adieu  ; 
sleep  well.  I  embrace  thee,  and  I  embrace  thee  yet 
again. 

Wednesday,  December  12th,  4.15  p.m. 

Oh!  how  the  time  lags  until  I  shall  be  your  hus- 
band in  the  sight  of  all!  They  torment  you,  they 
distress  you,  and  yet  I  have  not  the  right  to  snatch 
you  away  from  suffering,  to  protect  you  from  tyran- 
ny! This  expression  is  not  too  strong,  Adèle.  On 
the  contrary,  it  is  very  feeble.  Those  persons  who 
act  towards  you — the  sweetest  and  most  lovable  of 
human  beings — as  they  do,  must  have  a  self-conceit 
which  is  incomprehensible  to  me.  My  Adèle,  do  not 
fancy  I  am  again  exaggerating.  These  are  simple 
truths  drawn  from  the  deepest  recesses  of  my  heart. 
You  must  recognize  them  as  such,  in  spite  of  your 
humility  and  your  submissive  spirit. 

Dear  love,  I  would  not  in  any  way  lessen  your 
respect  and  affection  for  your  parents.  In  your  hus- 
band's eyes,  that  respect  and  that  affection  are  among 
your  most  appealing  charms.  Nevertheless,  I  wish 
that  you  could  learn  to  resist  unjust  vexations,  and 
that  you  would  not  allow  yourself  to  be  sacrificed  so 
quietly  to  opinions  which  to  me  are  inexplicable. 

Great  heavens!  why  am  I  not  already  your  hus- 
band? No  matter;  I  am  so  in  your  eyes,  and  in 
the  sight  of  God.  I  am  your  protector,  your  sup- 
port. Rely  upon  me,  my  dearest.  Who  should 
raise  his  voice  in  your  behalf,  if  not  your  Victor? 
Ah,  yes!  rely  always  upon  me;  be  very  Sure  that 

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this  support  at  least  will  never  fail  you.  My  own 
happiness,  my  own  repose,  are  not  the  object  of  my 
life;  it  is  your  repose  and  your  happiness  which  it 
is  incumbent  on  me  to  secure  at  the  cost  of  any  sac- 
rifice, to  preserve  by  every  kind  of  devotion.  You 
are  weak,  but  I  am  strong,  and  all  my  strength  is 
for  you.  Yes,  I  am  yours  entirely  ;  all  that  is  in 
me  belongs  to  you,  both  that  which  is  earthly  and 
that  which  is  immortal. 

Adieu,  my  adored  Adèle;  adieu,  my  wife.  I  em- 
brace thee  most  tenderly. 

Sunday,  December  i6th. 

My  last  words  yesterday  were  :  Sleep  well.  Yours 
were:  Adieu,  Monsieur  Victor.  But  to-day  I  write 
to  you,  to-day  I  am  ready  to  throw  myself  at  your 
feet,  to  accuse  myself  of  everything,  to  ask  pardon 
of  you  for  all  the  faults  that  I  have  undoubtedly,  but 
unconsciously,  committed.  You  will  not  find  in  this 
letter,  my  adored  Adèle,  anything  that  resembles  a 
reproach  or  a  recrimination.  You  were  suffering 
yesterday  evening.  I  was  undoubtedly  in  the  wrong, 
and  I  alone.  I  should  have  liked  to  write  you  a  let- 
ter that  very  night,  in  which  I  should  have  related 
to  you  some  proofs  of  attachment  which  I  have  given 
you,  and  of  which  you  are  in  ignorance,  in  order  to 
show  you  that  if  signs  of  indifference  during  unhap- 
piness  have  been  shown  by  one  of  us  to  the  other,  it 
is  not  I  who  have  done  so.  Yesterday  you  brought 
a  very  grave  accusation  against  me.  It  may  have 
been  a  little  thoughtless.  /  laughed,  while  you  wept  I 
My  Adèle,  I  will  not  give  vent  to  angry  explanations  ; 

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I  will  impose  silence  on  all  that  rises  within  me  in 
revolt  against  such  an  accusation.  Since  you  were 
ill,  I  will  submit  to  your  punishing  me  for  an  invol- 
untary error  as  if  it  were  a  premeditated  injury.  Dear 
love,  I  will  confine  myself  to  assuring  you  that  I  did 
not  see  you  weep,  that  I  was  in  ignorance  of  your 
distress,  and  that  I  do  not  even  now  understand  its 
cause. 

My  Adèle,  I  want  to  repeat  to  you  how  I  love  you, 
even  at  the  very  moment  that  I  suffer,  through  you, 
and  for  you.  I  hope  to  see  you  to-day  at  church. 
You  will  find  me  in  every  respect  the  same  as  if  you 
had  yesterday  bidden  me  a  tender  and  loving  adieu. 
Forgive,  forgive  me,  for  you  are  gentle,  kind,  and 
generous,  and  I  am  none  of  these  things. 

My  adored  Adèle,  may  I  embrace  you  here  ? 
Your  Faithful  and  Grateful  Husband. 

Dear  love,  I  ask  nothing  of  you,  not  even  an  em- 
brace, nor  a  smile,  nor  a  glance.  All  I  desire  is  that 
you  should  no  longer  suffer,  and  that  you  should  no 
longer  be  angry  with  your  Victor, 

Monday,  December  17th. 

My  beloved  Adèle,  I  must  throw  myself  at  your 
feet  to  sue  for  pardon.  If  you  knew  how  deeply  I 
repent  of  having  disobeyed  you  yesterday!  I  came 
away  much  dissatisfied  with  myself,  because,  in  spite 
of  your  sweet  and  gracious  words,  I  had  not  read  my 
pardon  in  your  face.  You  were  right,  and  doubly 
right.  I  will  not  tell  you,  dear  love,  that  you  were 
angry  for  a  trifle,  because  I  do  not  consider  it  so.  It 
is  not  the  subject  of  the  disobedience,  but  the  dis- 

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obedience  itself,  which  is  of  importance.  I  know  that 
in  your  place  I  should  have  been  extremely  displeased, 
and  I  will  not  disguise  from  myself  that  I  should  not, 
perhaps,  have  been  as  sweet-tempered  about  it  as 
you  were.  It  is  written  in  your  destiny,  my  good 
and  generous  Adèle,  that  you  should  surpass  me  in 
everything  except,  indeed,  in  the  love  that  I  bear 
you.  Dear  love,  I  have  been  to  blame  only  through 
thoughtlessness;  but  a  thoughtlessness  that  is  a 
source  of  distress  to  3^ou  is  very  blâmable.  Forgive 
me,  oh,  forgive  me  !  I  have  thought  of  nothing  since 
yesterday  but  the  pain  that  I  have  caused  you.  I 
cannot  understand  how  it  is  that  I,  who  would  not 
willingly  occasion  you  the  slightest  annoyance, 
should  have  been  guilty  of  distressing  you  so  much, 
without  any  object,  and  purely  from  carelessness. 

Adieu,  adieu.  I  adore  you  because  you  are  an 
angel,  and  I  embrace  you  because  you  are  my  wife. 

Friday,  December  21st. 

Adèle,  there  is  an  insupportable  idea  from  which 
I  wish  to  escape,  but  which  has  constantly  returned 
to  beset  me,  ever  since  the  last  time  I  saw  you,  four 
days  ago. 

Great  heavens  !  suppose  that  our  marriage  should 
ever  result  in  your  unhappiness  !  .  .  .  Adèle,  do  you 
realize  the  extent  of  my  jealous}^?  Did  you  sufficient- 
ly consider  all  its  exactions,  and  my  excitabilit}^  be- 
fore deciding  to  unite  your  life  with  mine?  I  should 
not  know  how  to  tell  you  what  took  place  within  me 
when  your  mother  mentioned  before  me  the  other 
day  that  you  had  accepted  the  arm  of  some  man  who 
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is  unknown  to  me.  The  idea  that  this  favor — in  my 
eyes  so  immense — had  been  granted  to  a  stranger  ; 
that  this  privilege  of  approaching  you  so  nearly, 
which  belongs  to  me  by  right  only,  might  every  day 
perhaps  be  shared  by  others — this  privilege  which 
is  so  innocent  and  which  fills  me  with  such  delight — 
the  very  idea  of  this,  I  say,  altogether  overcame  me. 
It  still  seems  to  me  that  you  must  be  indifferent  in 
regard  to  what  occasions  me  cruel  distress.  Adèle, 
this  torture,  joined  to  the  necessity  of  keeping  a  re- 
straint upon  myself,  threw  me  into  a  condition  that 
is  difficult  to  describe.  I  came  away,  and  ever  since 
then  these  ideas  which  possess  me  have  poisoned 
everything,  even  the  pleasure  of  thinking  of  you. 

I  have  examined  myself  severely,  and  I  find  that 
I  do  not  agree  with  the  opinion  commonly  expressed 
that  jealousy  is  ridiculous.  I  have  asked  myself  if 
I  was  to  blame,  and  not  only  have  I  found  myself 
unable  to  condemn  my  jealous  passion,  but  I  am  con- 
vinced that  it  is  actually  a  part  of  the  chaste,  pure, 
and  exclusive  love  that  I  feel  for  you,  but  with  which 
I  seem  unable  to  inspire  you.  Dear  Adèle,  if  you  do 
not  feel  this  love,  you  are  at  least  designed  by  nature 
to  comprehend  it.  For  this  reason  I  am  sure  that 
you  will  not  laugh  at  what  has  caused  me  such  ex- 
quisite pain.  Ah!  how  happy  I  should  be,  if  I 
were  beloved  in  the  same  measure  that  I  love  ! 

It  is  evident  that  I  must  have  a  blind  confidence  in 
you,  dear,  thus  to  unveil  before  you  the  most  inti- 
mate secrets  of  my  soul.  If  I  were  speaking  to  an 
ordinary  person,  I  should  fear  that  my  jealousy  would 
appear  only  a  failing.     With  you  I  have  no  such  ap- 

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prehension.  Whatever  constitutes  my  entire  hap- 
piness naturally  cannot  be  a  trifle  in  my  eyes,  and 
it  will  not  surprise  you  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
discuss  this  subject  with  those  who  regard  it  in  a 
trivial  light. 

Under  ordinar}'  circumstances,  jealous}^  is  a  sus- 
picion insulting  to  the  person  who  excites  it,  and 
degrading  to  the  person  who  indulges  it.  Dear  love, 
I  do  not  do  you  the  injustice  of  supposing  that  you 
confound  the  delicacy  of  an  imperious  love,  which 
you  are  born  to  inspire,  with  the  coarseness  of  vulgar 
minds.  My  jealousy  may  be  extreme,  but  it  is  re- 
spectful. I  believe  that  it  does  me  honor,  because  it 
proves  the  purity  of  my  tenderness.  If  mj^  wife  ever 
gave  me  cause  for  jealousy  through  lightness  of  con- 
duct, I  should  die  of  it,  but  I  should  never  suspect  her 
for  a  single  moment. 

I  have  spoken  at  length  of  all  my  ideas  on  this 
subject,  because  the  matter  is  of  importance.  Such 
jealousy  as  mine,  dear  Adèle,  ought  to  give  you  pleas- 
ure. If  it  frightens  you,  j'ou  do  not  love  me.  If  you 
met  me,  who  am  a  man,  giving  my  arm  to  a  young 
girl,  or  to  any  woman,  would  it  be  a  matter  of  indif- 
ference to  3'ou?  Reflect  upon  this,  for  if  it  is  really 
something  that  you  would  not  care  for,  I  am  lost — 
you  do  not  love  me.  These  are  m^?-  unvarying  sen- 
timents. Love  that  is  not  jealous  is  neither  true  nor 
pure.  Be  very  sure  that  those  who  are  without  a 
feeling  of  jealousy  concerning  one  woman  are  in  love 
with  them  all.  Mj^  dear,  my  beloved  Adèle,  you 
have  once  told  me  that  you  loved  me,  and  until  you 
tell  me  to  the  contrary  I  intend  to  believe  it;  I  intend 

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to  cling   to   this   delicious  conviction  as  the  only 
belief  that  binds  me  to  life. 

Adieu.  Only  a  great  love  for  thee  could  have  writ- 
ten the  pages  that  I  have  just  concluded.    A  demain. 

Saturday,  December  22d. 

I  have  just  read  over  these  two  pages.  I  tremble 
lest  they  should  strike  you  as  strange.  That  would 
prove  to  me  that  you  neither  understand  me  nor  love 
me.  Adèle,  dear  love!  Ah,  no!  I  will  believe  that 
our  souls  understand  each  other,  for  is  it  not  true? 
And  if  it  is  true,  then,  my  adored  Adèle,  what  hap- 
piness is  in  store  for  us!  Come,  let  us  not  be  like 
others  who  fear  to  feel,  or  to  express  what  they  feeL 
Let  us  be  open,  we  who  are  innocent  and  pure.  Do 
not  let  us  hide  from  each  other  any  of  our  impres- 
sions; let  us  tell  each  other  all  our  thoughts,  for  in 
this  way  we  shall  be  safe  against  those  false  inter- 
pretations that  so  often  destroy  confidence,  and  even 
affection. 

I  have  sometimes  perceived,  with  pain,  Adèle,  that 
you  draw  back  from  some  of  my  opinions;  but  this 
is  because  you  do  not  enter  into  my  ideas,  and  you 
exaggerate  the  meaning  of  m}^  words.  I  am  in  ig- 
norance as  to  whether  j'^ou  esteem  me  more  or  less 
than  I  deserve;  but,  for  pity's  sake,  be  indulgent 
to  me.  Some  unknown  voice  within  me  tells  me 
that  I  should  lose  nothing  if  you  could  know  me 
exactly  as  I  am.  This  testimony  of  my  own  conscience 
is  dear  to  me  ;  it  represents — together  with  the  little 
atom  of  affection  that  you  grant  me — the  only  com- 
fort I  possess.     Numerous  as  my  faults  are,  there  is 

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nothing  degrading  in  them;  and,  akhough  I  know 
that  I  am  full  of  imperfections,  I  know  also  that  you 
are  full  of  goodness. 

Time  and  paper  fail  me,  and  j^et  how  many  things 
I  have  still  to  say  to  you  !  I  talk  to  you  so  rarely  ; 
I  see  you  so  seldom!  Dear  love,  how  much  I  am  to 
be  pitied,  and  how  happy  are  those  who  are  permitted 
at  all  times  to  enjo}^  your  presence,  your  smile,  your 
words  !  I  am  but  an  exile.  When  I  go  to  your  house 
everything  oppresses  me,  every  one  watches  me.  I 
am  obliged  to  put  a  force  upon  myself,  to  disguise 
my  own  feelings,  and  there  is  no  one  in  the  world 
who  wears  a  mask  or  fetters  with  more  difficult}^  than 
I  do. 

Oh,  when  will  all  this  end?  When  shall  I  attain 
the  unique  and  immense  happiness  that  the  future 
holds  out  to  me?  Excuse  this  letter,  hurriedty  writ- 
ten.    My  ideas  are  as  much  disordered  as  my  writing. 

Saturday,  December. 

Still  a  few  words.  I  should  have  answered  your 
preceding  letter,  my  love,  but  that  which  3^ou  sent 
me  yesterday  evening  has  thrown  my  whole  mind 
into  confusion.  I  do  not  know  what  ideas  will  fill 
this  paper.  The  only  one  which  remains  clear  to 
me  is  the  same  that  always  possesses  me — that  of 
my  inexpressible  tenderness  for  you. 

I  smiled  when  I  read  that  you  imagined  you  saw 
around  you  persons  more  worthy  than  yourself  of 
being  loved  as  I  love  j'ou.  I  conjure  j^ou  for  the 
thousandth  time  to  do  no  one  the  honor  of  compari- 
son with  yourself.     You  say,  Adèle,  that  some  day 

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I  shall  become  aware  of  your  lack  of  knowledge,  and 
that  this  will  be  a  disappointment  to  me.  Under- 
stand, m3^  dearest,  that  you  possess  the  rarest  and 
most  beautiful  kind  of  knowledge,  a  knowledge  of 
all  the  virtues.  Yet  more,  the  useless  and  purely 
relative  accomplishments  which  you  wish  to  possess 
would  in  no  wise  add  to  my  happiness.  Much  that 
we  learn  is  not  worth  the  trouble  of  learning. 

You  once  told  me,  with  a  charming  simplicity, 
that  you  did  not  understand  poetry  ;  but  that  is  as 
much  as  to  tell  me  that  you  do  not  comprehend  vir- 
tue. Adèle,  poetry  is  the  soul  ;  genius  is  the  soul  ; 
that  which  people  call  my  talent  is  nothing  else  than 
my  soul.  You  are,  therefore,  no  stranger  to  it,  dear 
love;  for,  if  I  may  venture  so  to  believe,  our  two 
souls  have  never  failed  up  to  this  time  to  understand 
each  other.  The  most  ignorant  being  in  the  world 
can  feel  poetry,  that  pure  poetry  of  thought  to  which 
positive  acquirements  add  nothing  whatever  ;  a  poetry 
which  weaves  its  imaginative  fancies  around  living 
images,  which  feeds  on  love,  devotion,  and  enthu- 
siasm, and  which  reveals  to  generous  natures  the 
most  secret  mysteries  of  our  souls.  Such  poetry  as 
this,  Adèle,  you  will  alwa3^s  comprehend,  because 
you  are  good,  gentle,  noble,  and  sincere.  What  mat- 
ters all  else?  In  the  presence  of  these  divine  in- 
spirations, these  revelations  of  the  ideal,  what  are 
the  laborious  acquirements  of  men,  uncertain  and 
often  false  as  they  are?  They  do  but  drain  the 
springs  of  life,  while  poetry  —  that  poetry  which  I 
draw  from  your  look  and  from  your  smile — is  at  once 
its  delight  and  its  consolation.     Pardon  me;  I  do 

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not  know  whither  this  subject  will  lead  me,  but  speak- 
ing of  poetry  is  almost  the  same  thing  as  speaking 
of  yourself. 

Yesterday,  Adèle,  I  passed  a  delightful  evening. 
Let  me  go  over  it  with  you.  How  sweet  it  is  to  par- 
don one's  self  when  one  loves  !  Adèle,  a  feeling  of  re- 
morse remains  with  me,  notwithstanding.  You  wept  ! 
I  caused  you  to  weep!  Great  Heavens,  dear  love! 
Oh,  forgive  me!  What  would  I  not  give  to  atone 
for  those  tears  which  you  shed  in  silence  beside  me, 
and  because  of  me!  Alas!  what  cause  ought  you 
to  have  had  to  weep — you  who  are  all  my  happiness? 
No,  I  will  not  pardon  myself,  and  the  more  I  con- 
sider it  the  more  do  I  feel  myself  to  blame. 

But  if  I  have  wounded  you,  my  poor,  dear  love, 
it  is  only  from  excess  of  affection.  I  had  suffered 
so  much  myself  in  believing  that  you  tolerated  me 
only  from  politeness,  and  that  my  presence  was  dis- 
pleasing to  you.  .  .  .  Oh,  tell  me  that  3^ou  forgive 
me,  and  grant  me  a  smile  to  console  me  for  those 
tears. 

Adieu,  my  adored  Adèle  ;  you  will  not  tell  me  that 
this  letter  is  short.  I  add  some  verses,*  which  I  com- 
posed for  your  fête  during  my  hours  of  sadness  and 
depression.  I  ought  not,  perhaps,  to  send  them  to 
you,  but  they  bear  witness  how  much  I  think  of  you. 

Adieu,  adieu  ;  write  me  a  long  letter,  and  fill  up 
the  lines  completely.  I  embrace  you,  and  I  swear 
to  you  that  you  shall  not  again  weep  on  my  account. 

Your  Husband. 

*A  toi — Odes  et  Ballades. 
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Sunday,  23d. 

What  a  letter  you  have  written  me,  Adèle!  You 
yourself  seem,  in  sending  it  me,  to  have  foreseen  and 
regretted  the  efïect  which  it  might  produce  upon  me. 
Therefore,  I  will  not  complain.  I  should  not,  indeed, 
even  answer  it,  for  fear  of  distressing  you  by  the 
pain  that  you  have  given  me,  were  it  not  of  impor- 
tance to  reassure  you,  and  in  so  doing  to  reassure 
myself  as  well  as  you.  Moreover,  how  can  my  time 
be  better  employed  than  in  writing  to  you?  To  what 
greater  pleasure,  or  to  what  more  important  duty, 
can  I  devote  it? 

Do  you  know,  Adèle,  that  some  words  in  your  let- 
ter have  completely  upset  me,  and  I  would  have  given 
all  the  blood  in  my  veins  to  have  had  an  immediate 
explanation  of  them?  What  was  in  your  mind  when 
you  wrote  that  sentence — that  insupportable  sen- 
tence— in  which  you  seemed  to  say  that  your  repu- 
tation was  not  without  stain,  nor  your  conscience  with- 
out reproach  ?  Speak,  oh,  speak  now  !  tell  your 
whole  thought  to  him  who  would  give  the  happiness 
of  his  life  to  procure  j^ou  a  moment's  pleasure — a 
single  flash  of  joy.  Do  not  disguise  from  me  any 
part  of  the  truth,  whatever  it  may  be;  j^ou  j^ourself 
know  whether  I  have  ever  hidden  anj^thing  in  my 
soul  from  you.  Listen,  I  am  going  to  give  you  an 
example  of  the  unbounded  confidence  that  you  owe 
me  ;  I  am  going  to  tell  you  what  a  terrible  suspicion, 
what  an  intolerable  idea,  this  cruel  sentence  has 
caused  me.  Answer  me,  my  Adèle,  my  beloved, 
my  adored  Adèle,  answer  me  as  you  would  answer 
God  !   Have  pity  on  me  if  some  demon  of  jealousy  has, 

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happily  for  me,  misled  me.  Consider  that  I  have 
tossed  all  night  in  torturing  sleeplessness,  sometimes 
accusing  myself  of  having  so  easily  taken  alarm  in 
a  matter  injurious  to  you,  sometimes  seeing  sus- 
picions increase  and  multiply  in  my  heart  to  the 
whole  extent  of  my  tenderness  for  you.  Speak  to 
me,  then,  with  that  sincerity  which  in  your  beauti- 
ful soul  is  the  inexorable  truth.  Answer,  yes  or  no, 
to  this  question,  or  else  I  shall  die  :  Have  you  ever  at 
any  time  loved  any  man  but  me  ? 

Oh,  my  Adèle,  if  when  you  read  this  sentence 
your  heart  cannot  restrain  its  indignation,  if  in  your 
sincerity  and  in  your  anger  you  answer  no  !  then 
with  what  joy,  with  what  unutterable  delight,  I  shall 
kiss  the  ground  under  your  feet,  in  thankful  recog- 
nition of  my  own  senselessness  and  culpability  in 
having,  even  for  a  moment,  so  completely  misunder- 
stood one  of  your  letters,  and  for  having  entertained 
a  suspicion  of  you,  the  being  whom  I  respect,  whom 
I  admire,  whom  I  esteem  more  than  all  else  in  the 
world.  Oh,  tell  me,  my  Adèle,  it  is  true,  is  it  not, 
that  you  have  never  loved  any  man  but  me? 

Alas,  God  is  my  witness  that  ever  since  my  infancy 
you  have  been  my  only  thought.  However  far  back 
I  search  my  memory,  I  meet  with  no  image  but  3^ours. 
Absent  or  present,  I  have  loved  you  always;  and  it  is 
because  I  have,  from  the  first,  resolved  to  offer  you 
a  worship  as  pure  as  yourself,  that  I  have  remained 
impervious  to  the  temptations,  the  seductions,  to 
which  my  sex  and  my  age  are  too  often  permitted  to 
yield  by  the  immoral  indulgence  of  the  world. 

When  I  reflect  upon  all  this,  Adèle,  and  think  of  all 

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the  chaste  and  angehc  quaUties  of  3^our  nature,  I  fore- 
see that  my  alarms  are  chimerical.  Nevertheless,  I 
have  told  them  to  you  because  I  ought  to  tell  you 
everything  ;  and,  moreover,  if  I  must  own  my  weak- 
ness, I  wish  that  you  should  be  so  kind  as  to  reassure 
me  yourself  and  to  answer  my  question.  For,  after 
all,  what  is  this  reproach,  this  stain  of  which  you 
speak?  Perhaps  (and  why  should  I  not  be  as  ingeni- 
ous in  reassuring  m3^self  as  in  self-torture?),  perhaps 
it  is  on  my  account  that  your  angelic  conscience  is 
alarmed,  and  you  believe  your  reputation  to  be  in- 
jured by  the  attentions  I  have  paid  you.  If  this  is 
so,  my  dearest  Adèle,  it  will  be  I,  not  you,  who  is  to 
blame.  All  the  fault  will  be  mine,  and  if  one  of  us  is 
unworthy  of  the  other,  it  will  be  myself.  How  dare 
you,  then,  tell  me  that  you  desire  for  me  a  wife  more 
worthy  than  yourself? 

Great  Heavens,  Adèle  !  What  am  I  beside  you?  Oh, 
I  beg  you — and  I  wish  you  were  here,  for  I  should 
kneel  before  3^ou  as  before  a  divinity — show  a  little 
more  appreciation  of  yourself.  If  you  knew  how  far 
you  are  above  all  others  of  your  sex,  if  you  could  see 
yourself  morall}^  could  know,  as  I  do,  all  the  noble- 
ness, all  the  simplicity,  all  the  greatness  of  your 
character,  you  could  not  wish  me,  even  in  your  wildest 
imagination,  any  other  wife  than  yourself.  It  is  I, 
Adèle,  who  am  very  far  from  your  standard.  All 
my  efforts  are  devoted  to  raising  myself  towards  you  ; 
and  if  I  have  ever  seemed  ambitious  for  fame,  it  was 
only  because  my  desires  habitually  turn  towards  3^ou  ; 
if  I  have  ever  sought  to  earn  distinction,  it  was  because 
I  thought  that  you  would  some  day  bear  my  name. 

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Come,  then,  believe  a  little  more  in  yourself.  I 
should  like  the  entire  universe  to  know  that  I  love 
you,  that  one  look  of  yours  is  more  precious  to  me 
than  all  the  fame  in  the  world,  and  that  I  would  will- 
ingly submit  to  see  all  m}^  blood  spilled  drop  \iy  drop 
if  tliis  would  spare  your  eyes  one  tear.  Why  is  it  not 
within  my  power  to  prove  to  you  vay  devotion  by 
actions  instead  of  words?  Ah,  you  are  far  above  all 
other  women  in  the  realms  of  virtue  and  of  gener- 
osity. Their  heads  do  not  even  reach  yowx  feet.  Do 
not  let  j'our  conscience  reproach  you  for  a  kiss  or  a 
letter;  the}^  are  the  onlj^  comfort  enjojxd  by  your 
husband  in  his  bereavement  and  isolation.  Fear 
nothing  as  regards  your  reputation;  it  is  dearer  to 
me  than  my  life.  I  should  have  to  be  a  miserable 
coward  if  it  were  to  cease  to  be  as  pure  as  yourself, 
and  that  time  will  never  come. 

Adieu.     You  are  to  me  as  my  own  life. 

Thy  Husband. 

Monday,  December  24th. 

I  should  not  have  promised  3^ou  not  to  work  3^ester- 
day  evening,  dear  Adèle,  had  it  not  been  that  work 
was  impossible  to  me.  How  could  I,  while  I  was 
still  under  the  spell  of  that  delightful  evening  passed 
at  your  side,  devote  my  mind  and  m}"  energies  to  a 
labor  that  would  be  whoU}^  without  interest  for  me, 
were  it  not  for  the  thought  that  it  is  only  by  labor 
that  I  can  make  a  position  in  life  worthy  of  being 
offered  to  you?  I  came  back  beside  mj'self  !  What 
happiness  mine  will  one  day  be!  I  retired  because 
I  thought  that  you  would  retire  at  the  same  time. 

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For  a  long  time  I  passed  in  review  the  most  trivial 
circumstances  of  those  peaceful  moments,  so  brief 
and  so  regretted,  which  were  passed  near  my  adored 
Adèle.  For  a  long  time  the  beloved  recollection  of 
you  prevented  me  from  sleeping,  and  when  at  last 
sleep  came,  it  restored  to  me  your  image,  radiant 
with  grace  and  sweetness. 

Dear  love,  if  my  heart  were  laid  bare  to  yom,  you 
would  find  there  the  thought  of  you  which  dominates 
all  other  thoughts.  Oh,  how  I  love  you,  and  what 
burning  words  I  need  for  the  expression  of  my  love  ! 
I  yearn  to  tell  you  a  thousand  times  that  I  love  you  ; 
I  yearn  to  have  you  tell  me  the  same  thing  a  thousand 
times.  My  whole  happiness  lies  in  this.  What  lan- 
guage of  genius  or  of  love  can  give  me  words  to  ex- 
press all  that  I  feel  for  you?  You  are  so  good,  so 
noble,  so  generous.  All  your  virtues  are  depicted  so 
beautifully  in  3^our  face  that  I  am  astonished  that 
all  men  who  see  you  are  not  madly  in  love  with  you. 
But  then  their  perception  is  so  dull,  their  judgment 
so  feeble,  their  minds  so  commonplace!  Yes,  my 
Adèle,  each  of  the  charms  of  your  face  reveals  one 
of  the  perfections  of  your  soul.  For  your  Victor  you 
are  an  angel,  a  spirit,  a  muse,  a  creature  with  only 
so  much  of  human  nature  as  may  suffice  to  keep 
you  within  reach  of  the  earthly  and  material  being 
whose  fate  and  whose  lot  3^ou  deign  to  share. 

Do  not  smile,  dear  love,  at  this  enthusiasm.  What 
creature  in  the  world  is  more  worthy  than  yourself 
to  inspire  it?  Oh!  why  do  you  not  see  yourself  as 
you  are,  such  as  yow  appear  to  him  whose  adored 
companion    you    will    be    eternally!     Immortality 

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would  be  for  my  soul  a  great  and  dreary  desert  if  I 

could  not  advance  in  it  by  your  side.    Yes,  my  Adèle, 

it  is  in  union  with  you  that  I  shall  live,  in  union  with 

you  that  I  shall  die,  in  union  with  you  that  I  shall 

enter  into  eternity.    I  must  pause.    Let  me  go  to  rest 

dreaming  of  happiness.     Another  time  I  will  think  of 

work  and  of  fame. 

Thursday,  December  27, 1 821. 

I  passed  a  very  happy  day  on  Tuesday,  Adèle, 
only  embittered  in  the  evening  by  the  thought  that 
you  would,  perhaps,  be  blamed  for  my  assiduity  in 
paying  attentions  to  you.  Dear  love,  the  idea  that 
you  may  be  called  upon  to  endure  the  slightest  dis- 
tress on  my  account,  is  for  me  the  keenest  of  all  dis- 
tresses. Nevertheless,  I  still  fail  to  understand  how 
there  can  be  the  slightest  harm  in  what  renders  me 
so  happy.  However  that  may  be,  I  would  sacrifice 
everything,  my  dearest  Adèle,  rather  than  see  you 
annoyed  because  of  me.  When  will  all  these  hin- 
derances  disappear?  When  shall  I  be  able  to  boast, 
in  the  face  of  the  whole  world,  that  I  love  j^ou,  you 
of  whom  I  am  so  proud,  you  who  represent  all  my 
honor  and  my  distinction?  Dear  Adèle,  how  happy 
your  Victor,  your  husband,  will  be  on  the  day  when 
he  can  publicly  assume  that  title  which,  in  his  eyes, 
is  more  distinguished  than  any  other!  Ah!  we 
shall  some  day  be  very  happy. 

But  we  are,  or  (to  speak  without  presumption)  /  am, 
very  much  to  be  pitied  at  present.  To  spend  so  few 
hours  out  of  so  many  da3^s  with  you,  and  feel  them 
always  harassed  by  a  perpetual  effort  to  suppress 
what   I    feel,  truly   all    my   other    troubles,  which 

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would  perhaps  seem  much  greater  to  an  indifferent 
mind,  are  nothing  to  this  one.  When  my  friends 
ask  me,  as  they  often  do,  why  it  is  I  am  sad  and  care- 
worn, the}^  are  very  far  from  suspecting  the  real 
cause  of  my  sadness. 

But,  Adèle,  you  love  me,  and  my  imagination 
can  conceive  of  no  misfortune  so  terrible  that  it 
could  not  be  consoled  by  this  thought.  It  is  suffi- 
cient to  transport  me  at  once  from  depression  to  exal- 
tation. So  long  as  I  can  feel  that  I  have  a  life  to 
devote  to  you,  I  shall  never  complain  of  my  lot.  My 
dearest  love,  has  not  your  slave  two  hands  with  which 
to  create  your  happiness?  Oh,  I  beg  of  you,  love 
me,  and  have  no  fears  for  the  future.  Let  us  go  for- 
ward with  faithful  hearts  and  smiling  faces.  Teach 
me,  j^ou  who  are  the  noblest  of  creatures  created  in 
God's  image,  teach  me  your  angelic  virtues,  for  I 
am  nothing  except  through  3^ou.  If  I  am  able  to 
unfold  my  past  life  to  you  without  shame,  is  it  not 
owing  to  you,  Adèle,  that  I  can  do  so?  If  there  is 
no  remorse  to-da3^  among  all  my  sorrows,  am  I  not 
indebted  for  this  to  the  protecting  influence  of  your 
nature  upon  mine?  How  much  I  ought  to  love  you, 
you  who  have  preserved  me  in  every  way,  who  will 
protect  me  through  everjHhing  !  How  I  do  love  you, 
you  to  whom  I  owe  even  the  abilit}^  to  love  3^ou  in 
a  manner  worthy  of  yourself  !  Only  love  me  a  little, 
as  well  ;  then  no  misfortune  can  be  of  any  moment. 

Friday,  December  zSth. 

It  is  just  two  j^ears  ago  to-day,  my  dearest  Adèle, 
since  I  passed  an  intoxicating  evening,  the  remem- 

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brance  of  which  will  always  remain  among  my 
sweetest  memories.  We  went  together  for  the  first 
time  to  the  play. 

It  was  at  the  Theatre  Français,  do  you  remem- 
ber? They  gave  "  Hamlet."  Tell  me,  dear  love,  have 
you  preserved  any  remembrance  of  that  delightful 
evening?  Do  you  recall  that  we  waited  a  long  time 
for  your  brother  in  the  street  near  the  theatre,  and 
that  you  told  me  ivonien  were  more  loving  than  men  ? 
Do  you  remember  that  during  the  whole  performance 
your  arm  rested  lightly  upon  mine?  That  I  spoke 
to  you  of  an  unhappiness  that  was  imminent,  and 
which,  in  truth,  was  not  long  delayed?  That  I  told 
you  a  great  many  times  that  so  happy  an  evening 
would  not  occur  again  for  a  long  time?  .  .  . 

Oh,  my  Adèle,  when  I  think  that  two  years  have 
passed  since  those  delicious  moments,  and  that  the 
smallest  circumstances  connected  with  them  are  like 
those  of  yesterday  in  my  heart,  I  ask  myself  whether 
it  is  the  same  with  you,  if  your  memory  has  been  as 
faithful  as  mine,  and  I  tremble  in  asking  it,  for  it 
would  be  presumption  to  believe  it;  and  yet,  if  you 
have  forgotten  all  this,  you  do  not  love  me.  Oh, 
tell  me  that  j^ou  have  not  forgotten;  tell  me,  I  pray 
you,  that  you  have  sometimes,  during  my  long  ab- 
sence, thought  with  regret  of  those  moments  that 
were  so  quickly  flown.  .  .  . 

Dear  Adèle,  how  many  times  I  thought  of  that  time 
when  I  was  in  despair.  But  of  what  moment  is  that 
painful  experience  now,  since  you  at  last  belong  to 
me,  belong  to  me  at  least  in  hope,  and  in  the  future. 
Who  would  dare,  now  that  you  are  mine,  to  tear  you 

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ffom  me?  Alas!  two  years  ago  I  sat  beside  you, 
peaceful  and  serene,  and  four  months  later  I  was 
obliged  to  bow  my  head  under  the  most  terrible  of 
all  misfortunes;  I  was  forcibly  separated  from  you! 
Now,  if  I  see  you  with  more  restraint  and  less  ease 
than  formerly,  it  is,  at  least,  with  more  security.  For 
nothing  but  hell  itself  will  prevent  your,  sooner  or 
later,  being  mine. 

My  own  fate  is  very  simple;  I  have  only  two  ob- 
jects in  perspective,  yourself  and  death.  Nothing  can 
deprive  me  of  my  Adèle.  Family  ties  and  relatives, 
without  you,  would  be  everything  to  me,  but  in  your 
presence  they  are  nothing.  I  myself  am  nothing 
more  than  your  possession. 

Saturday,  December  2gth. 

I  often  read  over  your  charming  letters.  They  are 
to  me,  in  some  sort,  like  your  presence.  I  am  aston- 
ished, dear  love,  that  this  correspondence,  which  is 
so  sweet  to  me,  should  still  occasion  you  any  scruples, 
for  the  manner  in  which  you  blame  yourself  for  not 
having  scruples  shows  me  that  you  still  feel  them. 
Do  you  not,  then,  remember  that  I  am  your  husband  ; 
that  I  ought  to  be  the  only  confidant  and  the  legiti- 
mate depositary  of  all  your  thoughts;  that  this  inti- 
mate mutual  communication  which  is  only  permitted 
us  through  letters  is  one  of  my  rights,  as  it  is  one 
of  my  duties.  Oh,  my  Adèle,  do  not  speak  to  me 
again,  I  entreat  you,  of  your  dread  of  being  overes- 
teemed  by  me!  Must  I  never  cease  repeating  that 
when  you  do  so  you  occasion  me  the  utmost  distress? 
I  beg  you  to  be  very  sure  of  your  Victor,  and  to  have 

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confidence  in  one  who  lives  entirely  in  you  and  for 
you.  Do  not  oblige  me  to  do  what  you  yourself  ex- 
press with  so  much  grace,  to  defend  my  wife  against 
my  wife. 

Yes,  I  am  proud  of  my  adored  wife,  of  my  good  and 
charming  Adèle;  and  this  is  not  vanity,  it  is  pride, 
and  pride  of  the  purest  description.  Your  virtues 
are  my  treasure,  your  perfections  are  my  wealth, 
and  I  will  defend  them  against  your  own  attacks 
with  the  jealousy  of  a  mother  and  the  ardor  of  a 
husband. 

When  I  told  you  that  your  soul  comprehended 
poetry,  I  revealed  to  you  only  one  of  your  heavenly 
faculties.  You  ask  :  Are  not  verses  poetry,  then  ? 
Verse  in  itself  does  not  constitute  poetry.  Verse  is 
only  an  elegant  vestment  for  a  beautiful  form.  Poetry 
can  express  itself  in  prose,  but  it  does  so  more  per- 
fectly under  the  grace  and  majesty  of  verse.  It  is 
poetry  of  soul  that  inspires  noble  sentiments  and 
noble  actions  as  w^ell  as  noble  writings.  A  poet  who 
is  a  bad  man  is  a  degraded  being,  baser  and  more 
culpable  than  a  bad  man  who  is  not  a  poet. 

This  is  enough  of  indifferent  things,  things  in  re- 
gard to  which  you  feel,  moreover,  more  than  I  can 
tell  you.  I  only  wish  that  you  could  know  how  beau- 
tiful, elevated,  and  poetical  is  your  soul.  When  we 
are  married,  dear  love,  it  will  be  you  who  will  inspire 
me,  you  with  whom  I  shall  take  counsel  concerning 
all  I  do,  and  thuwS,  in  addition  to  having  owed  you 
already  all  my  happiness,  I  shall  also  owe  you  my 
success,  should  I  achieve  it. 

Be  satisfied  with  yourself,  without  ceasing  to  be 
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modest.  Humility  becomes  you  so  well!  But  you 
should  distinguish  between  the  modesty  which  con- 
sists in  ignoring  one's  own  advantages  and  that 
which  is  displayed  by  attributing  them  in  some  sort 
to  others,  and  in  being  grateful  to  God  for  the  gifts 
of  nature,  as  well  as  to  our  parents  for  the  advan- 
tages of  education.  This  last  is  the  only  real,  the 
only  enduring,  modesty.  It  preserves  us  against 
false  pride,  and  leads  us  to  a  just  sense  of  our  own 
value. 

I  weary  you,  my  dear  and  noble  Adèle,  for  you 
know  all  this  better  than  I  do.  Forgive  me,  but  it  is 
you  who  are  responsible  for  it,  for  it  is  you  who,  by 
your  scruples  and  your  fears,  have  led  me  into  these 
dull  and  pointless  dissertations.  They  are  useful, 
however,  in  proving  that  my  esteem  for  you  is  not 
less  real  than  my  tenderness. 

Adieu.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  will  be  able  to 
read  this  scrawl.  Substitute  I  love  you  for  all  the 
words  that  you  are  unable  to  decipher;  then  you 
will  always,  have  the  thought. 

Adieu!  Tell  me  of  your  health,  and  permit  your 
husband  to  embrace  you. 


1822 

We  have  seen  Victor  Hugo  resume  his  sweet  habits  of 
love,  restored  to  him  after  a  long  and  painful  separation. 
He  was  again  able  to  see  Adèle  at  her  own  home,  but  in 
the  presence  of  her  parents,  with  considerable  frequency, 
and  sometimes  he  met  her  alone  elsewhere.  He  accom- 
panied her  and  her  mother  to  the  theatre,  or  in  walks, 
and,  above  all,  he  wrote  to  her,  and  she  answered  him. 

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These  were  precious  joj^'s  in  comparison  with  that  sad 
year  of  sohtude,  but  they  were  alloyed  for  Victor  by  one 
mortal  uneasiness. 

More  than  six  months  had  passed  since  the  death 
of  Mme.  Hugo,  the  new  year,  1822,  had  just  opened, 
and  as  yet  no  change  had  taken  place  in  his  worldly 
prospects.  His  father  had  not  yet  given  to  his  marriage 
the  necessary  consent,  and,  indeed,  remained  in  entire 
ignorance  of  his  son's  love  affairs.  As  to  a  position 
vmder  government  or  the  promised  pension,  his  hopes 
of  them  seemed  constantly  to  recede.  How  long  was 
this  state  of  things  likely  to  last? 

M.  Foucher,  worthy  man,  would  perhaps  have  had 
patience,  but  he  was  not  alone.  Uncle  Asseline  and 
his  wife,  Victor  Foucher,  the  elder  brother,  and  the 
cousins — above  all,  the  cousins — expressed  themselves 
astonished  at  the  delay,  blamed  the  affection  of  the 
lovers,  and  spoke  of  Adèle's  reputation  as  compromised. 
They  threw  the  blame  on  poor  Adèle  herself,  who  in  her 
turn  threw  it  upon  Victor — a  cruel  anxiety  for  his  sus- 
ceptible, poetic  soul. 

In  vain  he  postponed  the  supreme  moment.  It  be- 
came necessary  to  put  an  end  to  this  clamor,  to  take 
some  decision,  to  act.  He  only  half  believed  in  the  pen- 
sion ;  he  worked  at  his  romance,  he  worked  at  a  drama  ; 
he  already  felt  his  power.  Money  he  knew  would  be 
forthcoming  in  the  end.  His  greatest  difficulty  would, 
he  feared,  be  to  obtain  the  consent  of  his  father. 

This  difficult^^  which  had  already  caused  him  so 
much  suffering  in  his  mother's  case,  was  now  of  far 
greater  gravitv.  If  General  Hugo  refused  his  consent, 
it  could  only  legally  be  dispensed  with  by  waiting  five 
years  for  Victor's  full  majority.  Victor  could  not  dream 
of  asking  the  Foucher  family  to  extend  their  patience 
thus  far.  Would  he  himself  be  able  to  endure  the  suffer- 
ing caused  hy  solitude  and  hopeless  separation?  When 
Adèle  no  longer  existed  for  him,  what  then?  .  .  , 

When  we  consider  how  strong  love  was  in  the  heart 
of  this  young  man,  when  we  remember  the  gravity,  and 
even  gloom,  of  his  ardent  temperament,  it  is  evident  that 
the  question  which  he  proposed  to  put  to  his  father 
would  be  one  of  life  or  death  to  him. 

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Friday  Evening,  January^,  1822. 

I  should  have  done  well  to  leave  you  the  day  be- 
fore yesterday  at  your  own  door,  for  I  should  not 
then  have  embarked  on  that  discussion  which  must 
have  been  a  matter  of  indifference  to  you,  and  which, 
nevertheless,  procured  for  me  so  chilling  a  farewell. 
For  I  can  only  attribute  that  icy  adieu  to  the  conver- 
sation in  which  we  had  just  been  engaged.  An 
hour  before  we  were  in  such  perfect  accord!  Would 
that  I  had  quitted  you  then!  I  should  have  come 
home  with  a  glad  heart,  and  now  a  thousand  bitter 
thoughts  refuse  to  mingle  with  the  pleasure  of  writ- 
ing to  you.  It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  I  can  have 
said  anything  in  our  discussion  which  should  have 
offended  you.  My  words  were  certainly  not  words 
of  scandal  or  of  envy,  and  I  fail  to  understand  how 
I  can  have  displeased  you  by  taking  up  the  defence 
of  the  only  man  in  France  who  is  worthy  of  enthu- 
siasm.* If  I  myself  am  destined  ever  to  achieve  an 
illustrious  career,  it  seems  to  me,  dearest  Adèle,  that 
admiration  bestowed  on  me  by  fresh  minds  and  youth- 
ful souls  would  be,  after  yours,  my  sweetest  recom- 
pense.    But  let  us  leave  all  this. 

I  must  say  frankly,  however,  that  I  seldom  have  the 
pleasure  of  finding  you  in  accord  with  m}''  opinions. 
Whatever  opinion  I  advance,  even  if  I  express  before 
you  one  in  opposition  to  my  own  (and  it  is  strange 
that  this  seldom  happens  except  when  I  am  talking 
to  you),  you  are  much  more  ready  to  agree  with  the 
other  side  than  with  mine.     It  seems  to  be  only  neces- 

*This  remark  refers  to  Chateaubriand,  for  whom  Victor  Hugo 
entertained  the  most  ardent  admiration. 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

sary  that  a  remark  should  pass  my  hps  for  it  to  be 
an  error  in  your  eyes.  I  never  adopt  an  opinion  until 
I  have  inquired  of  myself  whether  it  is  noble  and  gen- 
erous— that  is  to  say,  whether  it  is  worthy  of  a  man 
who  loves  you.  Alas!  when  I  express  this  opinion, 
it  may  be  that  it  hurts  the  feelings  of  some  other  per- 
son who  is  present,  it  may  be  opposed  by  some  one, 
and  then  I  naturally  look  for  some  assurance  of  your 
approval,  yours  being  the  only  one  of  which  I  am  am- 
bitious, or  which  gives  me  satisfaction.  It  is  always 
in  vain!  You  look  at  once  dissatisfied,  your  brow 
is  overcast,  your  words  are  brief.  Sometimes  j'-ou 
even  impose  silence  upon  me.  Then  I  am  obliged 
to  hold  my  peace,  and  to  appear  like  a  prophet  who 
disbelieves  in  his  own  prophecies;  or,  if  I  continue 
the  discussion,  I  retire  at  last  discouraged,  because 
I  have  displeased  you  by  maintaining  ideas  which  I 
had  believed  to  be  worthy  of  you,  but  which,  accord- 
ing to  all  appearances,  turn  out  to  be  contrary  to 
your  own. 

I  believe,  dear  love,  that  all  I  am  saying  is  simple 
and  natural.  Yet  I  have  no  certainty  that  you  will 
not  consider  it  self-conceit.  And  even  if  it  is  self- 
conceit,  it  will  be  j'^our  own  fault.  Have  you  not  per- 
mitted me  to  believe  myself  loved  by  you?  Dear 
love,  a  small  and  narrow  self-confidence  will  never 
enter  into  a  soul  which  has  the  audacity  to  love  you. 
My  pretensions  are  very  much  higher  than  the  pre- 
tensions of  self-conceit.  What  I  hope  is  to  make 
you  happy — perfectly  happy;  to  associate  my  ob- 
scure and  earthy  mind  with  your  luminous  and  heav- 
enly one,  my  soul  with  j^our  soul,  my  fate  with  your 

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fate,  my  immortality  with  your  immortality.  You 
may  consider  all  this  as  mere  poetry  if  you  will,  for 
poetry  is  love.  What  is  there  real  in  this  world,  if  it 
is  not  poetry?  This  language  may  strike  you  as 
singular;  but  reflect,  my  Adèle,  that  poetry  and 
virtue,  in  my  mind,  are  synonyms,  and  then  it  will 
appear  quite  simple  to  you.  When  love  fills  up  a 
man's  whole  nature,  self-conceit  cannot  easily  find 
a  place  there.  It  is  true  that  I  have  not  invariably 
shown  a  very  profound  respect  for  the  common  run  of 
men.  My  consciousness  does  not  tell  me  that  I  am 
better  than  they  are,  but  that  I  am  different  from 
what  they  are,  and  this  is  sufficient  for  me. 

You  must  not  conclude,  my  adored  Adèle,  from 
all  I  have  just  written,  that  I  attach  an  extreme  im- 
portance to  my  opinions.  On  the  contrary,  you  should 
remark  that  it  is  not  my  own  opinion,  but  yours, 
that  I  rate  highly.  What  distresses  me  is  that  I 
should  contradict  your  opinions,  which  are  certainly 
much  more  just  than  mine.  When  we  are  married, 
dear  love,  I  will  guide  myself  always  by  what  3^ou 
think  best.  I  will  never  act  without  having  referred 
my  actions  to  you,  for  you  have  an  instinct  in  regard 
to  all  things  that  are  noble.  My  only  regret  at  this 
moment  is  that  all  my  efforts  to  think  in  a  manner 
worthy  of  you  do  not  appear  to  satisfy  you.  You 
yourself  have  never  experienced  this  feeling,  for  if 
you  had  you  would  have  complained  of  it  to  me. 

Do  you  know,  my  Adèle,  that  the  coldness  of  your 
farewell  has  preoccupied  me  so  painfully  during  these 
last  two  days  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  accomplish 
anything?    Thus  the  fear  of  having  displeased  you 

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is  added  to  remorse  at  having  wasted  my  time.  Every- 
day is  now  precious  to  me,  when  all  should  be  devoted 
to  working  for  you. 

There  is  one  idea  which  often  occurs  to  me  that  I 
must  communicate  to  you.  It  is  that  all  the  prom- 
ises of  service  from  men  in  power  may  not  be  of  so 
much  use  to  me  as  one  might  suppose.  I  rely  only 
upon  myself,  because  only  of  myself  am  I  secure.  I 
greatly  prefer,  dear  love,  to  work  for  a  dozen  nights 
in  succession  than  to  spend  one  hour  in  soliciting 
assistance  from  other  people.  Do  not  you  feel  the 
same?  I  am  sure  of  it.  And  how  proud  I  shall  be 
when  I  can  offer  you  a  competence  that  is  due  only 
to  my  own  exertions  !  When  I  am  able  to  say  :  "  No 
one  but  myself  has  contributed  to  the  welfare  of  my 
Adèle." 

When,  oh  !  when  will  all  these  delightful  hopes  be 
realized?  But  I  do  not  complain.  If  I  have  not  as 
yet  entered  into  the  joys  of  life,  mj^  capacity  to  do  so 
remains  in  reserve  for  the  bliss  in  store  for  me.  My 
dearest,  all  those  who  love  me  should  rejoice  on  the 
morning  that  I  wed  you  before  the  eyes  of  all  men, 
for  then  my  cup  of  happiness  will  be  more  full  than 
that  of  any  other  man.  Marriage  will  open  for  me  a 
new  existence.  It  will  be,  as  it  were,  a  new  birth. 
How  sweet  it  will  be,  after  so  long  experiencing  an 
intense  virginal  passion,  to  have  it  fulfilled,  through 
the  enjo3^ment  of  delights  before  unknown,  by  a 
chaste,  healthful,  satisfied,  and  not  less  ardent  afifec- 
tion! 

Oh,  my  Adèle,  forgive  me!  I  do  not  know  whither 
my  imagination  leads  me,  but  sometimes,  when  I 

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reflect  that  no  one  except  myself  has  any  right  in 
you,  that  you  are  exclusively  my  own,  I  am  amazed 
at  my  unworthiness,  and  I  ask  myself  what  is  there 
in  me  to  deserve  such  great  good-fortune?  If  you 
could  know,  dear  love,  with  what  an  agony  of  prayer 
I  implore  God  to  have  pity  on  my  solitude,  and  to 
grant  me  the  angelic  being  who  is  promised  me,  3^ou 
would,  perhaps,  be  able  to  conceive  what  power  an 
immortal  love  can  exercise  over  a  mortal  being.  It 
is  this  love,  Adèle,  that  has  me  completely  under  sub- 
jection. My  intense  temperament,  my  proud  spirit, 
my  ambitious  soul,  have  all  been  dominated  by  my 
love;  they  are  all  concentrated  on  you  alone,  all 
changed  into  one  desire,  one  idea,  one  aspiration; 
and  this  desire,  this  idea,  this  aspiration,  which  to- 
gether constitute  my  entire  life,  are  altogether  yours. 

At  present  I  live  an  imperfect  life.  You  are  lack- 
ing to  me — that  is  to  say,  everything  is  lacking  to 
me.  Our  rare  and  brief  interviews  give  me  some 
comfort,  but  they  do  not  completely  satisfy  me.  I 
need  to  see  you  often  ;  I  need  to  see  you  always.  This 
feeling  is  so  deeply  implanted  in  my  nature  that  it 
has  become  an  instinct  with  me.  The  overpowering 
necessit3^  of  seeing  you  is  constantly  drawing  me 
into  places  where  I  have  a  slight  hope  that  I  may 
have  a  glimpse  of  you.  I  am,  therefore,  often  very 
near  you  without  your  suspecting  it.  I  should  like 
to  be  disguised  or  invisible,  in  order  to  be  near  my 
wife  at  all  times,  to  follow  all  her  steps,  to  attend  on 
all  her  movements.  I  breathe  freely  only  when  in  her 
atmosphere. 

Dear  love,  oh  !  when  will  you  belong  to  me?    I  am, 

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indeed,  most  unworthy  of  you,  my  Adèle,  in  that  I 
suspected  you  the  day  before  yesterday  of  having 
deceived  me.  Do  not  despise  me,  I  conjure  you,  for 
having  for  a  moment  conceived  such  an  insulting 
idea.  You  untruthful  !  You  to  deceive  me  !  I  could 
sooner  believe  that  the  sun  in  the  heavens  and  eter- 
nity itself  were  liars. 

Adieu,  my  good,  my  noble  Adèle.  Love  your  Vic- 
tor, imperfect  as  he  is,  for  he  at  least  appreciates  the 
completeness  of  his  Adèle's  perfection. 

Thy  Faithful  Husband. 

Tuesday,  January  &h. 

Adèle,  all  that  you  said  to  me  in  your  letter  of  yes- 
terday is  perfectly  just.  I  thank  you,  dear  love,  for 
having  written  it,  notwithstanding  that  it  has  aroused 
me  as  from  a  dream.  It  is  one  of  your  rights  to  speak 
to  me  of  my  affairs,  for  my  affairs  are  yours.  Even 
more  than  this,  it  is  my  duty,  and  it  is  one  of  my  dear- 
est rights,  to  ask  counsel  of  you  in  regard  to  all  that 
concerns  me;  and  my  confidence  in  you,  as  well  as 
my  profound  esteem  for  my  wife,  advise  me  very  dif- 
ferently in  this  respect  than  does  her  own  modesty. 
I  should  have  wished,  long  since,  to  exercise  this 
right,  had  I  not  been  afraid  of  filling  up  these  letters, 
which  are  my  only  joy,  by  details  tedious  both  to  you 
and  to  myself.  But  this  reason  disappears  of  its  own 
accord  from  the  moment  that  your  wish  in  the  matter 
answers  to  my  own.  There  is  another  and  more 
powerful  reason,  however,  which  still  deters  me.  In 
giving  you  an  account  of  all  that  I  am  doing,  and  of 
all  that  happens  to  me,  I  should  be  apprehensive  of 

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seeming,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  sing  my  own  praises, 
and  on  this  account  only,  my  dearest  Adèle,  the  frank- 
ness which  you  ask  for — as  if,  indeed,  the  request 
were  necessary — will  be  somewhat  difficult.  But  if 
I  am  constrained,  in  spite  of  myself,  to  enter  into 
some  explanation  apparently  lacking  in  humility, 
I  hope,  dear  love,  that  you  will  recollect  that  it  is  not 
I  who  have  sought  an  occasion  to  obtrude  myself, 
and  that  the  details,  which  I  shall  try  to  make  as 
brief  as  possible,  are  essential  to  enable  j^ou  to 
understand  not  only  my  present  position,  but  the 
possibilities  in  my  future  as  well. 

What  is  necessary  to  our  happiness,  dear  love? 
Some  thousand  francs  of  income,  and  the  consent 
of  my  father.  That  is  all.  What  cause  have  we, 
then,  for  uneasiness?  For  myself,  my  distress  arises 
not  from  uncertainty,  but  from  dela3^  I  am  sure 
that  I  shall  be  able,  by  my  own  exertions,  to  earn 
the  means  of  subsistence  for  3^ou  and  for  me.  I  hope 
that  my  father,  after  having  wrecked  my  mother's 
happiness,  will  not  destroy  mine  as  well.  I  reh^  also 
on  being  able,  so  soon  as  I  attain  mj^^  majorit}^  to 
render  him  some  service  which  will,  in  some  sort, 
oblige  him  to  approve  our  union.  But  what  reduces 
me  to  despair  is  that  patience  has  never  been  a  vir- 
tue of  mine,  and  that  I  am  wholly  ignorant  of  when 
this  happiness  will  arrive,  although  I  know  for  a 
certainty  that  it  will  do  so,  at  least  unless  death  fore- 
stalls it. 

Do  not  ask  me,  Adèle,  how  it  is  that  I  am  confident 
of  obtaining  an  independent  subsistence,  for  I  shall 
then  be  obliged  to  speak  to  you  of  a  Victor  Hugo 

io6 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor    Hugo 

whom  you  do  not  know,  and  with  whom  your  own 
Victor  is  in  no  way  desirous  that  you  should  make 
acquaintance.  It  is  this  Victor  Hugo  who  has 
friends  and  enemies,  who  is  entitled  by  reason  of  his 
father's  military  rank  to  appear  everywhere  in  so- 
ciety as  the  equal  of  all  the  world,  who  has  attained 
a  precocious  reputation  on  account  of  some  very  slen- 
der literary  efforts,  and  whom  every  one  in  society, 
where  he  rarely  displays  his  cold,  melancholy  face, 
believes  to  be  occupied  with  some  serious  undertak- 
ing, when  he  is  really  dreaming  only  of  a  sweet, 
charming,  virtuous  j^oung  girl  who,  fortunateh^  for 
him,  is  ignorant  of  the  social  world.  This  Victor 
Hugo,  my  Adèle,  is  a  very  insipid  person.  I  could — 
I  ought,  perhaps,  to  speak  of  him  at  some  length,  in 
order  to  show  you,  by  a  number  of  details,  that  his 
future  offers  some  reasonable  expectations;  but  I 
beg  you  to  agree  to  accept  this  on  my  w^ord,  for  the 
Victor  Hugo  I  speak  of  is  very  wearisome  to  your 
own  Victor,  who  has  already  endured  a  great  deal 
in  writing  these  few  lines.  I  am  completelj^  con- 
fused, my  sweet  love,  at  having  been  led  into  speak- 
ing so  much  about  myself,  but  it  is  your  own  fault. 
I  repeat  that  I  speak  of  myself  at  such  length  only  at 
your  own  desire,  for  if  you  ask  me  what  I  look  for- 
ward to,  it  is  needful  that  I  should  tell  you  on  what 
my  expectations  are  based. 

I  am  aware  that  you  have  been  inspired  with  a  prej- 
udice, which  has  very  little  foundation,  against  the 
profession  of  letters.  Nevertheless,  dear  love,  it  is  to 
this  that  I  owe  the  position  which  I  now  occupy.  I 
do  not  know  whether  I  shall  succeed,  but  I  think  it  is 

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The   Love   Letters   of    Victor  Hugo 


also  doubtful  whether  there  are  many  young  men  of 
my  age,  without  private  fortune,  who  can  offer  you 
the  same  guarantee  for  the  future  in  themselves. 
What  have  I  done  that  I  should  be  forced  to  tell  you 
all  this?  Yet,  why  should  you  not  enter  into  my 
real  life?  You  will  have  no  difficulty  in  understand- 
ing me,  and  it  may  even  be  that  your  hopes  will  out- 
run mine.  I  am  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  my  eter- 
nal formula,  and  to  entreat  you  not  to  do  me  the 
injustice  of  supposing  all  tliis  to  be  the  language  of 
self-love.  My  dearest,  if  there  is  one  thing  more  than 
any  other  that  I  wish,  it  is  that  you  should  believe  in 
my  sincerity  ;  it  is  that  you  should  believe  me  when  I 
tell  you  that  there  is  only  one  thing  which  can  ever 
make  me  boastful,  and  that  is  that  I  am  beloved  by 
you.  I  wish  that  you  could  be  witness  how  the  praise, 
and  even  the  enthusiasm,  of  indifferent  people  bores 
me,  and  at  the  same  time,  my  Adèle,  what  a  pro- 
found impression  is  made  upon  me  by  your  approval 
in  the  slightest  degree.  You  may  be  very  sure  that 
the  man  for  whom  you  are  a  model  and  an  idol  can 
never  be  touched  by  vanity,  self-love,  or  false  pride. 
I  am  often  told — it  has,  indeed,  been  recently  said 
to  me  very  plainly — that  I  am  destined  to  achieve  a 
dazzling  reputation  (I  repeat  this  hyperbole  in  its  ex- 
act words).  For  my  own  part,  I  care  only  for  domes- 
tic happiness.  Yet,  if  this  can  only  be  attained  by 
success  in  my  profession,  I  should  regard  fame  as  a 
means,  and  not  as  an  end.  I  should  live  apart  from 
my  own  renown,  while  at  the  same  time  feeling  for 
it  the  respect  to  which  fame,  in  itself,  is  alwa3^s  en- 
titled.    If  it  should  come  to  me  according  to  predic- 

io8 


The    Love   Letters   of  Victor   Hugo 

lions,  I  shall  have  neither  desire  nor  hope  in  regard 
to  it,  for  I  have  no  hope  and  no  desire  to  give  to 
anything  but  to  you. 

Adèle,  you  are  my  only  object,  and  all  roads  for 
the  attainment  of  my  end  seem  good  to  me,  provided 
I  might  follow  them  in  a  straightforward  and  up- 
right manner,  without  crawling  in  the  dust  and  with- 
out stooping.  This  was  my  idea  when  I  told  j^ou 
that  I  should  be  much  better  pleased  to  earn  a  liveli- 
hood by  my  own  exertions  than  to  wait  upon  the 
uncertain  good-nature  of  some  man  in  power.  There 
are  a  great  many  ways  of  making  a  fortune,  and  I 
should  assuredly  have  made  mine  by  some  of  them 
ere  this  if  I  had  been  willing  to  do  so  by  favor  or  by 
flattery.  That  is  not  my  way.  I  confine  myself  to 
asking  for  the  fulfilment  of  that  to  which  I  have  a 
right.  I  have  obtained  a  promise,  and  I  am  expect- 
ing its  fulfilment. 

In  other  respects,  dear  love,  you  are  already  in- 
formed of  all  that  concerns  me.  Tell  me,  would  you 
have  advised  any  other  course  than  that  which  I 
have  adopted?  Would  it  have  been  really  worthy 
of  you  that  your  Victor  should  go  each  day  to  weary 
every  one,  from  the  minister  to  his  lowest  clerk,  with 
his  persistence?  I  am  still  in  ignorance  as  to  whether 
my  simple  and  reasonable  claim  has  been  heard,  but 
certainly  neither  you  nor  I  would  have  wished  it  to 
succeed  at  such  a  price.  It  is  well  known  that  men 
sometimes  obtain  ever^^thing  the^^  wish  by  means 
of  women,  through  intrigue,  through  corruption 
and  vanity — things  which,  bad  as  they  are,  are  not 
condemned  by  the  world.     I  hate  myself  for  telling 

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The    Love   Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

you,  even^n  the  fewest  possible  words,  that  I  could 
have  done  this,  but  I  am  confident  that  it  is  needless 
to  add  that  your  husband  rejects  such  baseness  with 
horror  and  disgust. 

What  remains,  then,  for  a  young  man  who  dis- 
dains to  push  himself  by  the  two  most  easy  ways? 
Nothing  but  the  consciousness  of  strength  and  his 
own  self-respect.  For  me,  Adèle,  the  knowledge  of  your 
affection  makes  all  my  strength.  One  must  follow 
one's  career  with  clean  hands  and  a  pure  heart,  and 
advance  in  it  as  rapidly  as  may  be  without  injuring 
any  one  else.  The  rest  one  must  leave  to  the  justice 
of  God. 

You  must  not  conclude  from  all  this,  my  love,  that 
I  am  satisfied  to  abandon  myself,  in  my  retreat,  to 
work  of  my  own  choice,  which  is,  perhaps,  unfruit- 
ful, and  that  I  close  my  eyes,  through  indifference, 
to  any  other  means  of  success.  Great  Heavens  ! 
Adèle,  is  not  your  future  united  to  mine?  If  any 
reasonable  opportunity  were  to  present  itself  to-mor- 
row of  doing  something  that  an  upright  man  might 
do,  nothing  should  prevent  my  taking  advantage  of 
it  with  alacrity  and  pursuing  it  with  vigor.  If,  to 
obtain  you  three  months  sooner,  all  that  was  neces- 
sary was  to  abandon  the  projects  and  the  dreams 
of  my  whole  life,  to  follow  a  new  occupation,  to 
undertake  new  studies,  I  should  do  so  joyfully,  my 
Adèle.  You  would  be  mine,  and  should  I  then  have 
anything  to  regret?  I  would  thank  Heaven  for  all 
the  thorns  with  which  my  path  might  be  strewn, 
provided  that  path  conducted  me  to  you.  Oh,  tell 
me,  my  adored  Adèle,  by  what  pains,  by  what  labors, 

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The   Love   Letters   of  Victor   Hugo 

can  I  obtain  you?  Everything  would  seem  to  me 
sweet  and  lovely,  provided  only  there  were  no  base- 
ness in  it. 

I  can  tell  you  nothing  further,  dearest  Adèle,  nei- 
ther more  nor  less.  On  the  day  that  I  told  you  that  I 
loved  you  I  told  you  everything.  Love  is  the  only 
feeling'that  cannot  be  exaggerated.  You  might  com- 
mand me  to-morrow  to  go  and  amuse  myself,  or  to 
die,  and  it  would  be  my  duty  to  obey  you  instantly, 
or  else  I  should  not  love  you.  To  love  is  to  live  no 
longer  in  one's  self  ;  it  is  to  live  in  another.  One  be- 
comes a  stranger  to  one's  own  existence — to  interest 
one's  self  only  in  that  of  the  being  beloved.  Thus, 
all  your  Victor's  devotion  to  you,  all  his  sacrifices 
for  you,  are  not  deserving  of  thanks  or  praise; 
they  are  the  necessary  consequences  of  a  senti- 
ment developed  by  circumstances  independent  of  his 
own  will.  If  you  love  me,  you  should  understand 
me.  If  I  love  you,  I  ought  to  refer  everything  to 
you.  I  am  then  no  longer  of  any  account  in  my 
own  sight,  and  if  anything  of  mine  can  be  of  use  to 
you,  it  is  perfectly  natural  that  I  should  devote  it  to 
your  service  on  the  instant,  even  if  it  be  my  life. 

I  must  recapitulate,  dear  love,  or  you  will  lose  yoxxx- 
self  in  this  immense  letter.  I  am  able  to  tell  you  that 
my  future  is  full  of  hope,  but  that  I  owe  this  hope  not 
to  myself,  but  to  pure  chance.  Hope,  however,  is  not 
certainty  ;  but  where  does  one  find  certainty  in  the 
destinies  of  men?  (Observe  here,  my  Adèle,  that  I 
weigh  all  my  words,  and  that  I  express  myself  with 
frankness,  because  I  am  sure  that  you  will  not  put  a 
false  interpretation  upon  what  is  said  to  you.)     It  is 

III 


The   Love   Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

more  than  probable  that  I  shall  some  day  inherit 
something  from  my  father  ;  for,  although  my  family 
troubles  contain  more  than  one  secret  (I  am  now  con- 
fiding one  of  them  to  you),  it  is  to  be  presumed  that 
during  the  four  years  that  he  has  exercised  vice- 
regal functions  in  Spain  he  cannot  have  failed  to 
lay  by  something.  Moreover,  he  has,  in  some  sort, 
admitted  as  much,  though  almost  in  spite  of  him- 
self. As  to  his  consent,  I  do  not  do  him  the  injustice 
to  doubt  it. 

Now,  my  Adèle,  if  your  parents  wish  for  anything 
more,  I  will  offer  them  a  heart  full  of  courage  and 
of  love  for  you.  I  cannot  promise  them  to  succeed, 
but  I  can  promise  to  do  all  that  is  humanly  possible 
to  do  for  that  end.  If  all  my  guarantees  fail  to  sat- 
isfy them  .  .  .  then  I  shall  go  and  say  to  them  what 
I  should  have  said  at  the  beginning  of  this  letter,  if 
I  had  listened  to  the  first  impulse  of  the  feeling 
prompted  by  yours.  I  will  go  to  your  parents' 
house  and  I  will  say  to  them  :  "  You  have  made  me 
very  happy  by  allowing  me  to  see  your  daughter. 
Since  you  granted  me  this  happiness  of  your  own 
accord,  I  have  resigned  myself  to  renouncing  it  for  a 
time.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  shall  be  able  to  live 
long  without  seeing  her,  but  I  shall  try  to  do  so,  and, 
with  the  hope  of  one  day  possessing  her,  I  may  suc- 
ceed. At  present  it  seems  that  you  doubt  my  future 
prospects.  Adieu;  you  shall  see  me  again  when  I 
am  in  possession  of  an  independence  and  the  con- 
sent of  my  father,  or  you  shall  never  see  me  more." 

This  is  what  I  have  decided  to  do,  Adèle,  on  the 
morning  after  the  first  day  your  parents  show  that 

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they  are  afraid  of  compromising  your  future  by  unit- 
ing it  with  mine.  Perhaps,  indeed,  I  should  already 
have  notified  them  of  this.  The  happiness  of  seeing 
you  has  made  me  close  my  eyes  up  to  the  present  mo- 
ment ;  still,  I  am  aware  that  only  a  hint  is  needed  to 
arouse  the  susceptibility  of  my  character.  Who 
knows?  I  flatter  myself  that,  perhaps,  since  I  have 
suffered  so  much,  I  may  have  earned  the  right  to  hope 
for  a  little  happiness.  But  it  may  be  that  all  this  is 
an  illusion,  and  if  I  am  really  destined  to  misfortune, 
what  right  have  I  to  make  you  share  it?  Adèle, 
your  parents  are  right  in  wishing  to  have  done  with 
me  until  I  shall  be  in  a  prosperous  position.  In  the 
absence  of  that  they  do  wisely  to  abandon  me. 

You  yourself  are  happy  ;  you  have  a  father  and  a 
mother,  both  of  whom  are  ready  to  sacrifice  every- 
thing for  your  happiness.  For  myself,  no  one  takes 
any  interest  in  my  future;  I  am  an  orphan.  On 
whichever  side  I  turn  my  eyes,  I  see  myself  solitary. 
You  are  generous  enough  to  love  me;  but  you  are 
not  3^our  own  mistress,  and,  moreover,  3^ou  will  soon 
have  forgotten  me  when  I  am  no  longer  near  you. 
That  is  human  nature.  Why  should  I  imagine  that 
there  would  be  an  exception  made  in  my  favor?  Yes, 
it  is  true  that  I  myself  am  an  exception,  because  the 
love  that  I  have  for  you  is  an  exceptional  one.  Adèle, 
you  will  see  that  it  will  be  only  a  short  time  before 
we  shall  say  farewell  to  each  other;  and  if  we  come 
to  that  farewell,  j^ou  will  find,  Adèle,  that  it  will  be 
our  last.  You  are  kind,  you  are  gentle  as  an  angel  ; 
he  to  whom  3^ou  will  some  time  belong  will  be  very 
happy. 

H  113 


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Adieu,  dear  love.  May  j^ou  never  shed  tears  as 
bitter  as  those  that  have  been  wrung  from  me  while 
concluding  this  letter.  I  was  deeply  moved  even  in 
writing  all  those  frigid  details,  but  it  was  not  within 
my  power  to  restrain  this  emotion  up  to  the  end. 
There  are  in  these  four  pages  a  great  many  words 
which  will  especially  strike  you,  but  which  have,  not- 
withstanding, been  very  sad  to  me  to  write.  Adieu, 
adieu,  ray  dearest  Adèle.  I  have  never  loved  you 
more  than  at  this  moment,  when  I  feel  that  a  new  sep- 
aration is  in  store  for  us.  Adieu  ;  I  had  a  thousand 
things  to  say  to  you,  but  there  is  a  cloud  between 
me  and  my  thoughts.  I  am  still  your  husband,  am 
I  not?  To  tell  you  that  I  shall  be  so  all  my  life  does 
not  imply  that  I  shall  be  so  very  long  !     Adieu. 

Sunday  Morning,  January  \\th. 
Now  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  hide  my 
face  in  my  hands  and  await  the  stroke.  Your  letter, 
Adèle,  is  at  once  very  bitter  and  very  generous;  it 
is  very  generous  because  it  is  filled  with  a  disinter- 
estedness so  much  the  more  admirable  because  it 
is  not  inspired  by  love.  I  remember  that  you  once 
said  to  me  passion  is  out  of  place.  My  last  letter 
cost  me  a  great  deal.  You  are  undoubtedly  the 
only  person  in  the  world  to  whom  I  could  have 
written  all  that  it  contained.  In  it  I  pushed  frank- 
ness as  far  as  it  is  possible  to  carry  it,  perhaps 
even  to  an  immodest  extent.  You  may  now  triumph 
in  the  sacrifice  j^ou  have  obtained.  How  will  it 
please  you?  What  more  can  I  say  to  you  in  a  let- 
ter?   I  do  not  know,  for  I  cannot  even  tell  whether 

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I  should  have  been  able  to  give  you  more  details 
in  a  personal  interview.  You  answer  my  expan- 
sion with  reticence.  If  I  were  in  your  place,  you 
tell  me,  .  .  .  and  there  you  pause.  But,  Adèle, 
what  more  do  I  ask  of  you  than  your  advice?  I 
have  implored  it  with  insistence.  I  would  have  done 
anything  to  make  you  think  me  worthy  of  it.  But 
what  does  it  matter?  Up  to  the  present  time  all  my 
actions  have  been  directed  towards  one  end,  that  of 
obtaining  you,  and  of  obtaining  you  in  a  proper 
manner.  I  was  not  sure  of  success,  but  I  did  believe 
myself  sure  of  a  reward  which  is  to  me  very  sweet, 
the  happiness  of  being  approved  by  you.  I  was 
deceived,  it  seems,  in  that  hope.  At  the  very  mo- 
ment that  I  give  you  the  highest  proofs  of  confidence 
and  esteem,  you  withdraw  from  me  your  own  con- 
fidence and  refuse  me  your  esteem.  Ah,  well,  since 
my  fate  is  nothing  in  your  eyes,  leave  me  to  my 
gloom;  take  away  from  me  the  hand  that  has  sus- 
tained me,  the  look  that  has  encouraged  me,  the 
voice  that  had  the  power  to  save  me  in  spite  of  my 
own  blindness.  I  shall  have  no  right  to  complain, 
for  I  am  a  fool  and  an  outcast,  and  you  yourself 
are  too  much  in  the  right  not  to  be  happy. 

None  the  less,  it  is  not  I  who  will  withdraw  in 
the  first  instance.  I  shall  remain  up  to  the  last  mo- 
ment such  as  you  have  always  found  me,  ready  and 
glad  to  give  my  life  if  it  can  procure  you  the  smallest 
pleasure.  Since  you  deprive  me  of  your  opinion, 
I  will  do  everything  that  your  parents  may  suggest. 
There  is  only  one  human  creature  for  whose  sake  I 
could  submit  to  these  humiliations  without  murmur- 
US 


The   Love    Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

ing.  I  will  submit,  hopelessly,  to  fresh  ones,  if  it  is 
necessary,  provided  that  they  stop  short  at  the  point 
where  humiliations  become  indignities. 

Of  the  phrase  in  which  you  reproach  me  for  my 
amour  propre  I  will  not  complain.  I  will  take  every- 
thing upon  myself,  and,  if  any  misfortune  occurs, 
it  shall  be  my  fault,  and  mine  alone  ;  for  I  repeat,  all 
that  the  parents  of  Adèle  require  I  will  do.  I  wish 
for  nothing  more  than  to  give  them  fresh  proofs 
of  a  love  that  nevertheless  stands,  it  seems  to  me, 
in  no  need  of  being  proved.  I  fear  that  too  much 
precipitation  as  regards  my  father  may  cost  us 
everything;  but  I  bow  to  a  wish  which  is  for  me  a 
law.  What  is  my  own  happiness,  at  any  rate?  It 
is  yours,  Adèle,  which,  if  necessary,  must  be  sep- 
arated from  my  own  deplorable  future  at  any  price. 
Moreover,  I  shall  not  remain  here  to  complain.  My 
life  will  have  been  crowned  by  a  beautiful  dream, 
from  which  I  shall  emerge  only  to  enter  on  a  sleep 
in  which  one  dreams  no  longer.  No,  I  shall  not  linger 
here  to  suffer.  When  all  is  over  for  me,  all  will  be 
begun  again  for  you.  I  shall  have  crossed  your 
life  without  leaving  a  trace  behind.  My  soul  will 
resign  itself  to  an  eternal  widowhood,  if  at  this  price 
it  can  purchase  any  measure  of  earthly  felicity  for 
you.     May  you  be  happy. 

You  are  ready  to  exclaim  at  this,  to  ask  me  what 
reason  I  can  have  to  believe  in  your  forgetfulness. 
Adèle,  I  do  believe  in.it,  and  I  believe  it  will  be  speedy. 
One  night  I  wrote  you  in  my  own  mind  a  letter  of 
twenty  pages,  in  which  I  related  many  proofs  of  af- 
fection which  I  had  given  you  during  our  separation, 

ii6 


The    Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

and  of  which  you  are  in  ignorance,  and  I  compared 
them  with  the  evidences  of  indifference  that  up  to 
this  time  I  have  received  from  j^ou.  But  I  did  not 
have  the  courage  to  write  down  these  miserable 
details,  to  record  with  my  own  hand  my  condemna- 
tion of  you.  Moreover,  what  would  it  have  availed 
me?  It  would  only  have  shown  that  you  deceived 
yourself  when  you  believed  you  loved  me  ;  and  it  is 
better  to  leave  this  to  be  done  by  time. 

If  any  one  had  come  and  told  me  a  week  ago  that 
you  would  not  be  mine,  I  should  have  given  the  lie 
direct  to  the  devil  himself.  To-day,  I  am  even  more 
apprehensive  than  yourself,  for  you  fear  only  hn- 
mense  difficulties.  It  is  not  what  you  call  my  plan 
of  waiting  on  events  which  is  the  cause  of  my  dis- 
tress; this  lies  in  your  parents'  lack  of  confidence 
in  me,  and  in  the  universal  suspicion  I  inspire  in 
your  associates.  I  will  be  more  generous  than  all 
of  you,  for  I  am  willing  to  destroy  my  own  future 
solely  to  show  my  submission  to  your  wishes.  I 
will  carry  out  all  your  intentions,  and  I  shall  do 
so  with  an  appearance  of  serenity,  although  I  am 
aware  that  I  shall  succeed  in  nothing  but  in  destro^'- 
ing  my  own  hopes.  I  do  not  know  what  I  say  :  My 
future,  my  hopes  !  Have  I  a  future?  Have  I  any 
hopes?  This  rupture  would  wound  me  cruelly  were 
it  only  because  it  will,  perhaps,  cause  you  some  mo- 
mentary annoyance,  and  it  would  be  m}^  desire  never 
to  occasion  you  the  slightest  pain.  You  still  repeat, 
and  with  sincerity  (for  you  believe  it  for  the  moment), 
that  you  will  be  alwa3^s  mine,  and  that  no  power 
shall  separate  us,  for  j^ou  will  withstand  every  effort. 

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Adèle,  I  have  letters  of  yours  extending  back  to 
March,  1820,  in  which  you  tell  me  the  same  thing, 
and  yet  you  have  been  smiling  and  happy  for  the 
last  eighteen  months  without  me.  This  must  be  the 
case,  for  a  marriage  (I  do  not  know  with  whom) 
has  been  proposed  for  you — has  been  proposed  to 
your  father — and  it  even  acquired  a  sufficiently  def- 
inite character  to  be  spoken  of  to  a  stranger.  If 
you  had  had  me  in  your  thoughts  during  this  time, 
would  you  have  suffered  such  an  ofïer  to  be  repeated? 
Yet,  how  can  I  stoop  to  discuss  this  matter?  Some 
one  else  will  be  successful.  It  may  be  that  he  will 
make  you  happier  than  I.  I  love  you  too  much.  I 
am  jealous,  extravagantly.  It  is  annoying,  is  it  not, 
to  be  adored  by  your  husband?  Some  day,  Adèle, 
you  will  appear  as  the  wife  of  another  man.  Then 
3^ou  will  collect  all  my  letters  and  burn  them,  and 
no  vestige  of  my  soul's  path  on  earth  will  remain; 
but  if  your  indifferent  glance  rests  for  a  moment 
on  these  records,  where  I  have  foretold  that  you 
will  forget,  you  will'  be  unable  to  refrain  from  ad- 
mitting to  yourself  that  Victor,  for  once  in  his  life, 
judged  rightly.  What  does  anything  matter,  pro- 
vided you  are  happy? 

Alas!  and  yet  I,  I  would  with  joy  have  resigned 
my  hopes  of  another  and  a  better  life  to  have  passed 
this  narrow  and  gloomy  existence  at  your  feet.  Do 
not  let  us  speak  of  it  an^?^  more.  Everything  is  about 
to  fall  down  of  itself.  I  will  do  everything  that  vour 
family  require,  Adèle.  I  promise  you  that  I  will  do 
so.  I  am  most  impatient  now  to  reach  the  time 
when  I  can  lay  aside  my  cares,  although  my  course  in 

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life  has  not  been  long.  Only  you  must  remember 
that  you  refused  me  your  advice,  that  I  implored  it 
of  you  on  my  knees,  and  that  you  considered  it  your 
duty  to  keep  silence. 

Perhaps  you  have  done  wisely.  You  ought  to  be 
the  best  judge;  for,  Adèle,  I  owe  it  you  to  bear  wit- 
ness, once  again,  that  the  soul  of  an  angel  is  not 
more  beautiful  or  purer  than  yours.  I  am  mad  and 
presumptuous  to  have  aspired  to  share  your  life. 
I  tell  you  this  with  heartfelt  sincerity;  I  am  of  no 
consequence  compared  to  others;  and  what,  indeed, 
am  I  beside  you? 

The  end  of  your  letter  touched  me,  because  any 
words  of  tenderness  from  my  beloved  Adèle  must  do 
so  at  the  moment  when  she  ceases  to  be  my  Adèle. 
But  they  are  nothing  but  words.  If  I  should  be 
taken  ill  to-morrow,  I  know  that  my  bed  of  suffering 
will  remain  as  lonely  as  that  of  a  criminal.  You 
will,  perhaps,  inquire  assiduously  for  three  or  four 
daj^s  from  the  person  whose  duty  it  will  be  to  inform 
you.  After  that  I  shall  be  free  to  die  if  I  please,  or 
according  to  the  will  of  the  Almighty,  and  all  will  be 
as  if  I  had  never  lived.  I  have  no  mother,  and  no 
one  is  under  any  obligation  to  love  me. 

But  all  this  would  perhaps  be  for  the  best,  for  the 
greater  part  of  my  ideas  are  false  and  absurd.  I  am 
a  fool.  Oh!  Adèle,  it  is  you  who  will  never  know 
how  deeply  I  have  loved  you!  How  should  you 
know?  You  close  your  eyes  and  ears.  I  declare 
to  you  that  it  is  one  of  my  rights  to  consult  you  in 
regard  to  my  affairs,  and  you  answer  me  that  you  will 
never  discuss  them  with  me,  that  you  owe  something 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

to  your  own  dignity,  and  that  I  force  you  to  remem- 
ber that  you  are  a  young  girl.  Adèle,  is  this  your 
confidence?  But  I  repeat  that  I  will  not  endure  the 
pain  of  being  the  one  to  bring  about  another  rupture. 
It  shall  be  the  work  of  your  father,  whose  consent  I 
have  had  for  a  year,  and  whose  refusal  I  shall  now 
have  within  three  months.  But  your  parents  are 
right,  and  your  future  must  no  longer  be  compro- 
mised. It  is  right  for  them  to  consider  what  they 
are  doing.  It  is  right  that  you  should  think  of  a 
new  future,  should  prepare  yourself  for  a  new  hap- 
piness. For  myself,  I  am  going  gradually  to  with- 
draw from  you. 

Do  not  be  surprised,  Adèle,  if  in  future  you  do  not 
find  that  I  shall  seek  occasions  to  see  you.  I  shall 
go  to  your  house  when  I  am  invited,  but  I  should  fail 
in  my  duty  if  I  sought  for  invitations. 

Happily,  I  shall  not  have  many  bitter  days.  And 
when  my  sentence  shall  have  been  pronounced  I 
shall  quit  Paris.  If  this  must  be  done  to  save  your 
reputation,  what  is  it  I  would  not  do? 

But  no — I  will  not  speak  any  more  about  my  death. 
It  is  a  grewsome  subject,  and  possibly  you  might 
esteem  me  less  if  you  knew  how  weak  I  might  prove 
in  the  presence  of  misfortune.  Besides,  what  is  my 
death  to  you? 

Adieu.  Send  me  an  answer  once  more,  I  implore 
you.  Once  more,  and  as  soon  as  possible.  After 
that  I  shall  cease  to  importune  you.  Alas  !  my  adored 
Adèle,  you  will  probably  write  to  me  as  to  a  stranger, 
for  since  my  last  letter  displeased  you,  this  one  ...  ! 

Yes,  you  will  treat  me  like  a  stranger;  yet  God 

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is  my  witness  that  the  heart  of  him  who  has  been 

your  husband  was  never  more  swollen  with  grief, 

was  never  more  filled  with  ardent  love  for  you,  than 

it  is  now.     Adieu. 

Saturday,  January  igth. 

How  can  I  tell  you,  my  adored  Adèle,  what  has 
been  passing  in  my  heart  during  the  last  two  days? 
The  night  of  Thursday  will  ever  be  one  of  the  most 
sorrowful  I  have  ever  passed,  and  yet  full  of  the  most 
tender  recollections.  But  now  that  I  have  seen  you 
once  more,  rosy  and  smiling,  I  am  delivered  from 
the  worst  of  my  anxieties,  the  most  cruel  of  my  fears. 
All  will  go  well  now,  and  doubtless  in  a  short  time 
you  will  be  quite  yourself  again. 

Who  would  have  believed  that  the  night  in  which 
I  had  promised  myself  so  much  happiness  would 
have  brought  me  so  much  sorrow?  In  the  first  place, 
there  was  the  sorrow  of  going  without  you,  a  disap- 
pointment that  was  the  greater  because  all  day  I  had 
expected  to  accompany  you.  Then  I  thought  you 
had  made  the  new  arrangement.  After  that  came 
the  sorrow  of  seeing  you  so  unwell,  so  suffering! 
Adèle,  my  dearest  Adèle,  to  have  seen  j^-ou  so  ex- 
quisitely dressed,  so  charming,  so  radiant  in  beauty, 
and  then  to  see  you  lying  on  a  bed  of  pain,  while  all 
those  other  men  and  women  in  the  house  were  dan- 
cing, frolicking,  and  laughing,  as  if  there  were  not 
near  them  an  aching  heart  and  a  suffering  angel! 
Dear  love,  that  night  will  never  be  effaced  from  my 
remembrance.  I,  while  beside  myself  with  despair, 
stood  in  the  midst  of  that  joyous  crowd,  forced  to  smile 
and  to  abstain  from  weeping,  only  anxious  to  be  rid 

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of  them,  and  then  you  thrust  me  away  when  I  came 
near  you.  You  cannot  conceive  what  I  felt  then. 
In  those  few  hours  I  Uved  years  of  sorrow.  My 
Adèle,  I  had  a  heart  full  of  pity,  and  no  one  had  any 
pity  for  me.  Oh,  what  I  suffered! — much  more  than 
yourself  ! 

And  yet  this  pain  was  not  without  its  charm,  for 
it  showed  me  the  extent  and  the  depth  of  my  love 
for  you.  Only  I  could  have  wished  to  be  in  your 
place,  for  then  I  should  certainly  not  have  felt  any 
suffering,  if  you  had  been  near  me.  And  when  we 
returned  home  together,  when  I  held  my  adored  Adèle, 
sick  and  suffering,  in  m}^  arms,  when  I  felt  her  heart 
beat  beneath  my  hand,  and  her  face  lay  close  up  to 
my  cheek,  then — yes,  then — I  would  have  thanked 
God  had  He  let  me  die  at  that  moment.  How  happy 
I  should  have  been,  but  for  the  expression  of  pain 
upon  your  face.     Oh,  what  am  I?    0  God!  .  .  . 

I,  your  protector,  your  husband,  I  could  not  pre- 
vent my  Adèle  from  suffering,  even  when  I  held  her 
in  my  arms!  .  .  .  My  dearly  beloved!  Adieu,  my 
angel  ;  adieu,  my  adored  Adèle.  Let  your  poor  hus- 
band fancy  that  he  kisses  you  a  thousand  and  a  thou- 
sand times! 

I  will  certainly  write  to  you  to-morrow. 

Sunday,  January  20th. 

I  go  back  again  to  that  ball,  dear  love,  as  for  three 
days  I  have  thought  of  little  else.  It  was  the  scene 
of  the  strongest  emotions  I  have  ever  experienced. 
That  ball  will  be  a  marked  epoch  in  my  memory,  like 
one  other  ball.  .  .  . 

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Adèle,  I  never  told  you  about  that  other  ball.  I 
feel  now  as  if  I  must  talk  about  the  sorrows  of  that 
night,  so  painfully  awakened  by  those  of  last  Thurs- 
day. 

It  was  Friday,  the  29th  of  June.  Two  days  before 
that  I  had  lost  my  mother.  It  was  ten  o'clock  at 
night  when  I  returned  from  the  cemetery  at  Vau- 
girard.  I  was  walking  home,  hardly  conscious,  I 
think  I  was  in  a  state  of  stupor,  when  chance  led  me 
near  your  house.  The  door  was  open,  lamps  blazed 
in  the  court-yard,  and  light  shone  in  the  windows.  I 
stopped  before  that  threshold  which  I  had  not  crossed 
for  so  long  a  time.  I  paused  there,  mechanically.  At 
that  moment  two  or  three  men  roughly  brushed  past 
me,  laughing  loudl3^  I  trembled,  for  I  suddenl}^  re- 
membered that  the  day  with  you  was  a  fête  Asiy.  I 
was  resuming  my  walk,  for  this  recollection  made 
me  feel  more  deeply  my  own  isolation  and  bereave- 
ment. But  I  could  not  stir  a  step  ;  something  seemed 
to  restrain  me.  I  stood  still,  feeling  as  if  I  had  no 
power  over  my  ideas.  Bj^  degrees  consciousness 
came  back  to  me.  Some  suggestion  of  the  devil,  I 
think,  impelled  me  to  test  my  fate  at  once,  to  decide 
it,  as  it  were,  at  one  blow.  I  wanted  to  see  if  I  had 
lost  my  wife,  as  well  as  my  mother.  If  I  had  lost  her, 
what  was  left  to  me  but  death?  Adèle,  how  can  I 
tell  you?  Despair  made  me  a  maniac.  I  had  arms 
about  me.  I  had  grown  weak  from  long  watching  and 
anxiety.  I  wished  to  see  if  you  could  have  forgotten 
me.  A  crime  (is  suicide  under  such  circumstances 
a  crime?)  seemed  a  small  matter  to  one  who  was  in 
the  depths  of  misery. 

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In  short,  I  know  not  what  insane  ideas  took  pos- 
session of  me.  I  am  ashamed  of  them  now;  but 
you  may  see  by  that,  at  least,  how  much  I  love  you. 
I  crossed  the  court-yard,  I  ran  up  the  great  stair- 
case, I  went  through  the  rooms  in  the  first  storj^ 
which  were  empty.  There,  by  the  light  of  the  festive 
lamps,  I  saw  the  crape  on  my  own  hat.  The  sight 
of  it  recalled  me  to  myself.  I  fled  in  haste.  I  con- 
cealed myself  in  the  long  corridor  where  j^ou  and  I  had 
so  often  played  together.  At  the  end  of  the  corridor 
I  heard,  overhead,  the  sound  of  music  and  dancing. 
I  do  not  know  what  demon  impelled  me  to  run  up  a 
back  staircase  which  leads  to  the  rooms  of  the  Coun- 
cil of  War.  There  the  sounds  of  gayety  became 
more  distinct.  I  went  up  higher.  On  the  second 
story  was  a  little  square  of  glass  which  looked  into 
the  ball-room.  I  do  not  know  if  I  was  then  myself, 
or  what  I  thought  of  at  that  moment.  I  put  my  burn- 
ing face  against  the  cold  glass,  and  looked  round  for 
3^ou.  I  saw  you.  What  tongue  could  tell  j^ou  what, 
at  that  sight,  passed  within  me?  I  w^ill  merelj'-  tell 
you  what  I  saw.  I  have  no  words  to  describe  my 
feelings.  For  a  long  time  your  Victor,  standing 
mute  and  motionless,  wearing  his  funeral  crape, 
looked  at  his  Adèle  in  her  ball-dress.  The  sound 
of  your  voice  could  not  reach  me,  but  I  saw  smiles 
upon  your  lips,  and,  dearest,  it  broke  my  heart.  I 
was  very  near  you,  but  I  was  doubtless  very  far  from 
your  thoughts.  I  waited.  There  was  still  in  my 
heart,  though  abandoned  to  despair,  some  power  of 
love  and  pangs  of  jealous^^  If  3^ou  had  waltzed,  I 
should  have  been  lost.     It  would  have  seemed  to  me 

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a  proof  that  I  was  completely  forgotten,  and  I  could 
not  have  survived  it.  But  you  did  not  waltz,  and  I 
took  it  for  a  sign  that  I  might  hope.  I  stood  there  a 
long  time.  I  was  present  at  the  fête  as  a  phantom 
ma3^  be  present  in  a  dream.  There  could  be  no 
jête,  no  joy  for  me;  but  my  Adèle  was  enjoying  a 
jête;  she  could  share  the  joy  of  others! 

It  was  too  much  for  me.  There  came  a  moment 
when  my  heart  was  full  and  when  I  should  have  died 
had  I  stayed  there  a  moment  longer.  Just  then  I 
awoke  to  a  sense  of  my  own  folly,  and  I  slowly  walked 
down  the  staircase  which  I  had  gone  up  without 
knowing  if  I  should  ever  come  down  alive.  Then  I 
went  back  to  my  house  of  mourning,  and  while  you 
were  dancing  I  knelt  and  prayed  for  you  beside  the 
bed  of  my  poor  dead  mother.  Subsequently  I  heard 
that  I  had  been  seen,  but  I  denied  that  I  was  there, 
for  my  presence  in  your  house  at  such  a  time  seemed 
singular,  and  few  hearts  could  have  understood  what 
I  have  just  been  telling  3^ou. 

Oh,  Adèle,  you  will  never  know  how  much  I  love 
you.  My  love  for  you  could  lead  me  to  commit  all 
sorts  of  extravagances,  possible  or  impossible.  I  am 
mad,  but  I  loved  you  so  much  that  truh^  I  do  not  un- 
derstand, had  I  committed  a  crime  that  night,  how 
God  Himself  could  have  condemned  me.  Adieu.  I 
love  you  as  men  love  God  and  the  angels. 

Monday,  January  2ist. 

You  have  forgiven  me,  Adèle,  but  can  I  ever  for- 
give myself?  Upon  my  knees  I  should  have  wished  to 
ask  your  pardon  ;  with  my  lips  I  should  have  wished 

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to  dry  your  angelic  tears;  with  my  blood  I  would 
willingly  have  paid  for  every  one  of  them.  I  have 
been  very  wrong,  my  adored  Adèle,  and  I  am  very 
wretched  for  having  been  so  guilty.  You  may  for- 
give me,  but  I  say  bitterly  to  myself,  over  and  over 
again,  that  I  never  can  forgive  myself.  I  thought  I 
never  could  have  experienced  greater  sorrow  than  I 
felt  on  Thursday,  when  I  saw  my  beloved  Adèle  sick 
and  suffering.  But  that  was  nothing  to  what  I  felt 
to-day  when  I  saw  you  weeping  and  suffering  through 
my  fault.  I  hate  myself.  I  curse  myself.  The 
more  sweet,  kind,  and  admirable  I  esteem  you,  the 
more  odious  I  seem  to  m3^self.  To  have  disturbed 
the  repose  of  my  Adèle  when  she  was  ill  is  a  crime 
for  which  I  never  can  be  sufficiently  punished,  and 
your  inexhaustible  indulgence  only  makes  me  more 
deeply  sensible  of  its  enormity. 

And  3"et,  dear  love,  I  implore  you  to  believe  that, 
indeed,  I  am  not  really  cruel  or  unkind.  I  am  wholly 
unworthy  of  you,  but,  allowing  for  my  imperfect  nat- 
ure, perhaps  my  conduct  may  be  excused.  It  was 
the  first  time  you  had  ever  seemed  to  wish  me  absent. 
The  idea  that  my  presence  was  unwelcome,  and, 
therefore,  that  you  no  longer  loved  me,  fermented  in 
my  brain.  You  tried  to  call  me  back,  but  the  blow 
was  struck.  Shall  I  tell  you  everything?  When  I 
got  out  of  the  house  I  hesitated  as  to  whether  I  should 
go  back  that  evening.  It  seemed  to  be  proved  to  me 
that  my  presence  was  too  much  for  you.  Tell  me, 
dear  love,  could  I  have  loved  you  and  have  been  able 
to  endure  such  a  thought  with  indifference?  I  cannot 
now  tell  what  I  did.     Only  believe  that  I  could  not 

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bear  to  give  you  such  affliction.  Yes,  my  Adèle,  I 
am  very  much  to  blame,  but  think  it  over,  and  if  you 
can  read  the  soul  of  your  poor  Victor,  you  will  see 
that  my  fault  had  its  origin  in  an  excess  of  love. 

If  you  could  but  know  what  a  night  I  passed  !  ,  .  . 
But  I  will  not  speak  of  that;  it  does  not  signify  what 
I  suffered.  I  would  gladly  have  suffered  a  hundred 
times  more,  could  that  have  been  possible,  to  have 
spared  you  one  minute's  pain. 

Do  not  imagine  I  am  trying  to  justify  myself.  Any 
justification  would  be  in  vain,  since  I  made  you  weep. 
Possibly  you,  in  the  first  place,  were  a  little  in  the 
wrong.  If  you  think  you  were  not — for  you  cannot 
err — I  will  take  all  the  fault  upon  myself,  and  again 
I  will  ask  pardon  for  having  dared  to  attribute  any 
wrong  to  you. 

Ah!  your  tears  deeply  moved  me.  The  memory  of 
the  angelic  sweetness  with  which  you  pardoned  me 
will  live  forever  in  my  heart.  Adèle,  he  whom  you 
love  is  not  ungrateful.  The  more  I  see  you,  the  nearer 
I  draw  nigh  to  you,  the  more  I  admire  you.  Every 
day  thoughts  of  you  make  me  feel  how  unworthy  I  am 
myself,  and  this  comparison,  to  which  my  thoughts 
wander  continually,  has  a  charm  for  me,  because  it 
shows  me  your  perfection,  j^our  superiority.  I  am 
proud  of  nothing  upon  earth  but  of  my  Adèle. 

When  will  you  be  mine?  When  may  I  daily  hold 
you  to  my  breast  and  bless  Heaven  for  having  given 
me  for  my  helpmate  a  being  so  generous,  so  virtuous, 
so  innocent?  It  must  surely  be  soon.  Yes,  Adèle, 
all  that  can  be  done  to  attain  that  end  I  will  do  with 
joy.     However  hard  the  conditions  may  be  made  for 

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The    Love   Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

me  that  I  may  win  you,  they  will  not  seem  hard  to 
me,  provided  only  they  are  such  as  I  can  fulfil  with- 
out loss  of  honor.  I  will  neglect  nothing  to  secure 
my  own  independence,  and  yours,  as  speedily  as  pos- 
sible, and  then  I  will  ask  for  my  father's  consent.  If 
he  will  not  grant  it,  I  will  give  him  back  the  life  that 
he  once  gave  me.  But  he  will  give  his  consent,  and 
you  at  last  will  be  my  own  ! 

Adieu,  my  angelic  Adèle.  Rely  upon  my  zeal  as 
well  as  on  my  love.  Since  you  have  forgiven  me, 
permit  me  to  embrace  you  with  the  respect  of  a  slave 
and  the  tenderness  of  a  husband. 

I  trust  I  shall  have  a  long  letter  to-morrow,  and 
that  it  will  contain  nothing  that  can  give  me  pain. 
You  have  forgiven  me!  Adieu.  Take  care  of  your 
health.  It  is  dearer  to  me  than  life,  and  yet  .  .  . 
But  all  is  forgotten,  is  it  not? 

Thursday,  January  24th. 

Your  Victor  this  evening  will  do  nothing  but  what 
has  reference  to  you.  Think,  dear,  it  is  just  a  week 
since  we  both  went,  not  together,  but  separately,  to 
that  ball  where  your  husband  was  to  suffer  so  much 
because  he  could  not  claim  that  title  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world.  If  you  had  been  mine,  Adèle,  I  would  have 
carried  you  in  my  arms  away  from  all  those  in- 
truders; I  would  have  watched  over  you  while  you 
slept  upon  my  bosom;  that  sad  night  would  have 
been  less  sad  for  you;  my  cares  and  my  caresses 
would  have  soothed  your  pain.  The  next  morning 
you  would  have  awakened  at  my  side;  all  day  I 
should  have  been  at  your  feet,  ready  to  anticipate 

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your  slightest  wishes,  and  every  time  you  felt  pain 
1  should  have  interposed  with  some  new  care.  In- 
stead of  all  that  happiness,  my  beloved  Adèle,  how 
much  constraint  and  embarrassment  we  had  to  en- 
dure! 

And  yet  there  was  enchantment  in  this  torture. 
When,  after  trying  long  to  secure  one  moment  of  lib- 
erty and  solitude,  I  was  permitted  to  enter  the  cham- 
ber where  you  lay,  on  tiptoe,  and  draw  near  the  bed 
where  you  were  lying  still  so  pretty,  in  spite  of  suffer- 
ing— ah!  I  was  well  rewarded  for  the  ennui  of  that 
ball,  and  the  insipidity  of  all  that  crowd  of  fools. 
Had  I  been  allowed  to  kiss  your  feet,  I  should  have 
felt  it  a  great  happiness.  And  if,  after  having  for 
a  long  time  motioned  me  away,  you  had  given  me 
one  tender,  gentle  word — if  I  could  have  read  in  your 
charming,  half-hidden  face,  a  little  love  for  me,  in 
spite  of  all  you  suffered,  then,  Adèle,  I  know  not 
what  mingled  joy  and  sadness  might  have  taken 
possession  of  my  whole  being,  and  I  would  not  have 
exchanged  that  painful  but  delicious  sensation  for 
all  the  felicity  of  the  angels. 

The  idea  that  you  were  my  wife,  but  that  others, 
not  I,  had  the  right  to  surround  you,  made  me  most 
unhappy.  Oh,  these  barriers  must  soon  be  broken; 
my  wife  must  be  my  wife,  and  our  marriage  must 
complete  our  union.  They  say  that  men  go  mad 
in  solitude — that  solitude  is  worse  than  celibacy! 
You  cannot  know,  dear,  what  inconceivable  impulses 
assail  me  when  I  lie  awake  at  night,  and  throw 
my  arms  about  my  bed  with  convulsions  of  love,  as 
I  think  of  you.  In  my  dreams  I  call  on  you,  I  see 
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you,  I  embrace  you,  I  utter  your  name  ;  I  would  like 
to  creep  in  the  dust  at  your  feet,  to  be  yours  for  one 
moment,  and  then  to  die.  Adèle,  my  love  for  you 
is  as  pure  and  chaste  as  your  own  breath;  but  that 
makes  it  only  the  more  ardent.  It  consumes  me  like 
a  flame  of  fire. 

But  it  is  a  sacred  flame,  lighted  only  for  you.  You 
alone  have  the  right  to  nourish  it.  Towards  all 
others  of  your  sex  I  am  blind  and  indifferent.  I 
never  notice  if  one  woman  is  beautiful,  or  if  another 
is  attractive;  I  am  as  little  affected  by  their  charms 
as  is  the  glass  before  which  they  stand  to  admire 
themselves.  I  only  know  that  among  women  is 
Adèle,  the  good  angel  of  my  life,  to  whom  I  owe  all 
my  virtues,  as  well  as  all  my  joys.  Dear  love  ...  ! 
And  so  little  is  wanted  to  make  us  happy  !  .  .  . 

What  you  tell  me  in  your  last  letter  about  the 
night  of  the  17th  has  greatly  touched  me.  Ah!  if 
my  care  could  cure  you!  But  wait;  very  soon  I 
shall  have  the  right  to  give  you  every  care,  or  my 
will  and  my  life  will  be  broken  to  pieces.  Remem- 
ber, your  Victor  is  a  man,  and  this  man  is  your  hus- 
band. 

Is  it  true,  my  Adèle,  that  on  that  fatal  night  of 
June  29th,  you  would  have  rushed  into  my  arms,  had 
you  been  free?  Oh,  how  much  that  idea  would  have 
consoled  me  in  that  moment  of  despair,  and  how 
sweet  it  is  to  me  to  know  it,  now  that  the  first  mo- 
ments have  passed,  and  that  the  proofs  you  have 
given  me  of  your  generous  tenderness  have  cicatrized 
that  cruel  wound!  What  can  you  not  do  with  me, 
and  what  are  not  you  to  me?    Joy  and  sorrow  all 

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come  to  me  through  you;  both  for  me  depend  upon 
my  Adèle.  With  you,  misfortunes  would  be  sweet  ; 
without  j^ou,  prosperity  would  be  hateful.  If  I  con- 
sent to  walk  on  my  way  through  life,  it  must  be  with 
you  who  have  deigned  to  be  my  companion.  Yes, 
my  adored  Adèle,  you  can  do  what  you  like  with  me 
with  a  smile  or  a  tear. 

I  have  one  great  faculty  in  my  soul,  the  faculty 
of  loving.  All  my  power  of  loving  is  yours,  for  in 
comparison  with  what  I  feel  for  you  the  affection  I 
have  for  my  friends  and  relatives,  and  even  that  I 
had  for  my  admirable  and  unhappy  mother,  is  as 
nothing.  Not  that  I  love  them  less  than  one  ought 
to  love  friends,  relatives,  and  one's  own  dear  mother, 
but  that  I  love  you  better  than  any  other  woman  in 
this  world  ever  yet  was  loved,  because  no  other  ever 
has  deserved  such  love. 

Adieu  for  this  evening.  I  am  going  to  bed  much 
relieved  in  mind  (for  they  tell  me  you  are  well 
again),  at  the  same  hour  when,  a  week  ago,  I  was 
trembling  with  anxiety  and  pity.  Adieu,  my  be- 
loved Adèle;  I  embrace  you.  I  am  about  to  kiss 
the  adored  lock  of  hair  that  you  have  given  me,  and 
that  I  have  not  half  thanked  yç>\\  for,  because  I  can 
fmd  no  words  to  express  my  gratitude.  For  such  a 
pledge  of  love  I  can  do  nothing  but,  kneeling  before 
thee,  beseech  thee  to  be  my  good  angel  in  this  life 
and  my  sister  in  eternity.  Adieu!  adieu!  Thou- 
sands of  kisses! 

Friday,  January  2^th. 

I  am  about  to  write  to  you,  my  dearest  Adèle,  to 
rest  myself  from  writing.     Yet  I  suppose  j^ou  ought 

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The   Love   Letters    of  Victor  Hugo 

to  scold  me.  This  week  I  have  not  done  so  much 
work  as  I  ought.  We  had  such  griefs  on  Monday,  I 
had  so  much  to  think  of  Tuesday,  and  such  an  amount 
of  correspondence  every  day  since  then,  that  it  has 
consumed  all  my  time.  And  yet  this  is  the  third 
evening  I  have  passed  at  home  alone.  The  world — 
with  its  demands  and  its  worries,  its  insipid  duties, 
its  wearisome  social  obligations  —  is  very  odious  to 
me.  Besides,  as  you  will  not  be  there,  there  is  a  good 
reason  for  my  not  caring  to  go  into  company. 

The  steps  I  have  taken  with  reference  to  the  min- 
istry have  thus  far  gained  me  nothing  more  than 
promises.  It  is  true  that  these  promises  seemed  pos- 
itive. I  hope,  and  I  wait,  until  I  can  hear  more.  I 
will  tell  you  all  about  this  matter  before  long,  and 
will  tell  3^our  parents  as  well.  It  seems  quite  possi- 
ble, my  love,  that  in  a  month  or  two  I  may  obtain  some 
place  that  will  bring  us  in  two  or  three  thousand 
francs  a  year.  Then,  with  what  I  may  make  by 
writing,  could  we  not  live  together  quietly  and  hap- 
pily, secure  of  finding  our  income  increase,  even  if 
we  have  an  increasing  familj^?  When  I  reflect,  my 
Adèle,  that  such  happiness  is  far  from  being  im- 
probable, and  may  be  even  near  at  hand,  I  am  wild 
with  joy. 

You  may  object  that  I  have  not  the  consent  of  my 
father.  But  tell  me,  why  should  my  father  refuse 
to  let  me  be  happy  when  he  sees  I  can  support  m}^- 
self  ?  Why  should  he  not  rather  try  to  repair  all  the 
wrongs  he  has  done  us  by  one  word,  which  would 
so  easily  give  him  a  claim  on  my  everlasting  grati- 
tude?   It  seems  to  me,  indeed,  that  these  prospects 

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ought  to  triumph  over  all  difficulties.  My  father  is 
a  weak  man,  but  he  is  really  kind-hearted.  If  his 
sons  would  only  show  him  affection,  I  think  they 
could  do  much  with  him.  He  wanted  very  much 
to  get  me  a  position  on  the  London  Embassy.  This 
position,  which  made  me  wretched,  would  have  flat- 
tered his  pride  and  his  ambition.  Well,  I  wrote  him 
yesterday  a  letter  wliich  I  feel  sure  will  dissuade  him 
from  it. 

I  have  never  told  you,  Adèle,  how  often  I  have  had 
to  fight  with  many  persons — even  with  your  own 
father — to  get  rid  of  the  project  of  this  accursed  em- 
bassy. Many  people  cannot  understand  my  refusal 
of  such  a  position,  because  I  cannot  tell  them  my  real 
motive.  Dear  love,  I  should  have  to  leave  you,  and 
I  would  as  soon  be  dead.  To  go  so  far  from  j'^ou, 
and  to  lead  a  brilliant,  dissipated  life,  would  have 
been  what  I  could  not  do.  I  am  good  only  to  live 
beside  my  Adèle.  I  only  endure  the  days  when  I 
cannot  see  her  by  anticipating  the  days  when  I  can. 
When  hours  only  have  to  pass,  I  calculate  the  min- 
utes.    That  is  what  I  shall  do  all  day  to-morrow. 

Alas,  for  three  long  da3^s  I  have  not  seen  j^ou!  All 
the  happiness  I  can  now  know  has  to  be  sacrificed  to 
those  hateful  proprieties,  and  to-morrow,  when  I  shall 
see  you,  I  shall  have  to  watch  over  every  motion,  and 
shall  fear  to  address  you  one  word  or  to  give  you  one 
look — and  yet  to  me  your  words  and  your  looks  are 
everything. 

Some  day,  Adèle,  we  will  live  under  the  same  roof  ; 
we  will  share  the  same  chamber  ;  you  will  sleep  in  my 
arms  ;  I  shall  have  the  right  to  live  only  for  you,  and 

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no  one  will  dare  to  cast  a  jealous  or  disapproving 
glance  on  our  happiness.  Our  pleasures  will  be  our 
duties  and  our  rights.  Our  life  will  flow  on  gently, 
with  few  friends,  but  with  much  love.  All  our  days 
will  be  alike — I  mean  they  will  all  be  happy — and  if 
we  have  cares  and  anxieties,  we  will  bear  them  to- 
gether; then  the  burden  will  be  light.  Does  this 
future  seem  attractive  to  you,  my  adored  Adèle?  For 
my  part,  if  I  had  not  that  hope,  I  do  not  know  what 
else  would  keep  me  alive. 

Adieu.  Write  me  a  very  long  letter.  Oh,  how  I 
love  you!  I  embrace  you  with  tenderness  and  re- 
spect. 

Your  Husband. 

January  26th. 

Thank  you,  my  Adèle,  for  being  displeased  at  the 
words  which  so  little  correspond  to  my  real  feelings. 
Your  indignation  and  your  distress  convince  me  that 
I  am  loved  as  I  wish  to  be,  and  as  I  love  you.  Your 
Victor  always  feels  great  joy  when  he  perceives  in 
you  some  new  mark  of  generosity,  brought  out  by 
an  accidental  circumstance. 

Yes,  I  should  be  despicable  if  ever,  in  all  my  life,  I 
had  been  able  to  tliink  of  any  other  woman  as  I  think 
of  you,  if  you  were  not  to  me  all  womankind,  and  far 
more  to  me  than  all  women.  The  day  when  I  shall 
cease  to  feel  thus  (a  day  which  never  can  be),  I  shall 
be  vile  and  contemptible,  both  in  your  eyes  and  in 
my  own.  No,  my  Adèle,  no,  I  am  not  unworthy  of 
thee  in  this  respect,  even  in  the  smallest,  the  most 
careless,  of  my  thoughts.     If  a  desire  is  ever  awak- 

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ened  in  me,  it  turns  towards  her  who  purifies  and 
tempers  all  things,  even  desire.  Every  other  woman, 
in  my  eyes,  is  composed  of  a  hat  and  a  gown.  I  ask 
nothing  more  of  them.  Forgive  me,  you  who  are  so 
gentle  and  indulgent,  if  I  say  over  to  you  again  what 
I  have  often  said  before,  but  when  I  speak  of  my  love 
and  my  respect  for  you,  how  can  I  refrain? 

Saturday,  January  26th,  3  p.m. 

Adèle,  let  us  not  disguise  from  ourselves  that  we 
parted  not  well  satisfied  with  each  other,  and  yet  we 
had  done  our  best  to  make  it  otherwise.  At  least  I, 
for  my  part,  can  bear  witness  for  myself.  Confess, 
dear  friend,  that  you  treated  me  with  some  severity, 
both  during  and  after  our  conversation.  I  came  home 
very  sad,  though  I  had  kept  a  smile  upon  my  lips  up 
to  the  last  moment. 

You  have  told  me  often,  Adèle,  and  you  repeated 
it  in  this  conversation,  that  I  left  you  and  j^our  par- 
ents to  do  my  part  {que  je  te  laissais  mon  rôle  à  faire). 
My  love,  if  I  were  twenty-five,  and  had  an  income  of 
ten  thousand  francs,  you  would  not  have  one  mo- 
ment in  which  to  reproach  me.  No  one  would  play 
my  part;  it  would  be  so  sweet  to  me  to  play  it.  I 
do  not  see  that  in  my  situation  I  could  act  other- 
wise than  as  I  am  doing.  So  long  as  a  part  of  my 
future  means  does  not  depend  upon  myself,  I  do  not 
feel  it  would  have  been  generous  to  promise  what  I 
was  not  sure  I  could  fulfil.  It  would  be  a  wretched, 
cowardly  abuse  of  confidence.  I  tell  your  parents  of 
my  affairs  exactl3^  as  the}^  stand.  I  act  as  they  wish 
me  to  act.     I  walk  in  the  path  they  have  marked  out 

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for  me,  even  when  I  would  rather  follow  a  way  of 
my  own.  So  doing,  I  do  only  my  duty;  but  I  do 
it,  and  I  do  it  joyfully.  Why,  then,  do  you  say  that 
I  leave  you  to  fulfil  what  really  belongs  to  me  alone? 

You  told  me  once,  Adèle,  that  you  thought  I  was 
not  eager  for  our  marriage,  Adèle,  God  is  my  wit- 
ness that  you  said  that  to  me  one  day.  I  wish  to 
think  that  you  said  it  without  much  thought,  that 
you  carelessly  spoke  these  inconceivable  words.  I 
am  now  convinced — and  the  bitter  conviction  has 
only  come  to  me  within  the  last  hour — that  of  us  two, 
I  am  the  only  one  who  really  desires  this  marriage. 
It  would  be  a  very  lukewarm  desire,  Adèle,  that  could 
look  forward  with  indifference  to  "waiting  several 
years,  if  people  would  not  talk  in  the  mean  time." 
For — you  said  it  yourself  just  now — it  is  only  to 
stop  the  things  that  people  say  that  you  are  anxious 
to  marry  me.  I  admired  the  way  in  which,  in  one 
of  your  last  letters,  you  said  you  despised  gossip. 
Such  generosity  on  your  part  did  not  surprise  me.  I 
see  I  made  a  mistake.  Pardon  my  presumption. 
You  are  right.  I  do  not  desire  that  you  should  have 
to  bear  any  annoyances,  however  petty,  for  my  sake, 
and  as  soon  as  "talk"  makes  you  uncomfortable, 
it  is  natural  you  should  blame  me. 

You  alone  are  worthy  of  a  sacrifice — worthy  of 
anything.  I  speak  this  from  the  depths  of  my  heart. 
I  say,  besides,  that  you  are  the  only  woman  for  whose 
sake  I  would  act  as  I  am  now  trying  to  act,  though 
all  my  efforts  you  seem  to  misunderstand.  I  am 
proud  and  shy,  yet  I  have  solicited  a  place  from  gov- 
ernment.    I  wished  to  ennoble  literature,  and  I  am 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor  Hugo 

working  as  a  breadwinner.  I  love  and  I  respect  my 
mother's  memory,  and  I  have  put  aside  the  remem- 
brance of  her  wrongs  in  writing  to  my  father.  Adèle, 
what  is  the  use  of  these  efforts?  If  it  is  only  suc- 
cess you  ask  of  me,  I  shall  gain  it  in  the  end,  or  I 
shall  fall  in  the  attempt. 

But  I  see  I  am  not  such  a  man  as  you  desire  for  a 
husband.  You  said  to  me  but  a  few  moments  ago  : 
"J'aimerais  un  homme  qui  ..."  You  did  not  fin- 
ish the  sentence,  leaving  me,  no  doubt,  to  complete 
your  thought.  I  left  you  with  the  conviction  that  I 
am  not  he  whom  you  could  love,  and  with  the  reso- 
lution to  do  everything  I  could  that  you  might  never 
again  find  cause  to  complain  of  me,  even  unjustl3^ 

If  this  letter  seems  sad,  you  will  tell  me,  perhaps, 
that  it  is  because  you  spoke  to  me  of  my  affairs,  but 
that  you  will  not  mention  them  again,  etc.  I  tell  you 
beforehand  that  such  bitter  irony  will  only  make 
things  worse.  You  must  surely  know  that  it  is 
honor  and  happiness  to  me  to  receive  and  to  follow 
your  advice.  Your  counsel  will  be  always  dear  and 
precious  to  me.  What  makes  me  wretched  is  to  know 
that  your  affection  for  me  did  not  hinder  you  from 
making  me  a  foolish  proposal;  to  know  that  you 
would  be  willing  to  waii  several  years  for  our  mar- 
riage; to  be  told  that  you  could  love  a  tnan  ivho  .  .  . 

Yes,  Adèle,  you  are  right.  A  man  might  win 
your  love  if  he  forgot  respect  for  his  own  character, 
if  he  would  abase  himself,  would  make  concessions, 
would  renounce  his  proper  place  in  life  for  j^'ou.  I 
own  that  I  have  not  been  such  a  man,  and  to-mor- 
row, if  you  think  I  have  been  wrong,  I  am  still  ready 

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The   Love   Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

to  ask  you  for  forgiveness.  Adieu.  Allow  me  to 
force  you  once  more  to  embrace  me,  for,  until  you 
decide  otherwise,  I  consider  myself  still  your  hus- 
band. 

Thursday,  January  3isf. 

I  want  to  write  you  a  few  words  to-day,  that  I  may 
not  have  been  uselessly  employed  in  thinking  of  you 
all  the  morning,  and  that  some  of  my  thoughts  dur- 
ing the  day,  when  I  have  not  seen  you,  may  at  least 
reach  her  who  is  my  only  thought.  What  are  you 
doing?  Where  are  you  at  this  moment,  my  adored 
Adèle?  Is  there  no  recollection  of  me  in  the  thoughts 
that  now  occupy  you?  If  it  is  true,  as  you  told  me, 
that  you  are  all  the  time  thinking  of  me,  it  is  one  of 
my  greatest  happinesses  to  believe  that  this  sweet, 
intimate  correspondence  of  thought  continually 
brings  our  souls  together,  even  when  we  are  not 
near  each  other.  Your  image  is  my  faithful  com- 
panion; my  eyes  are  always  turning  towards  it, 
and  yours  are  always  open  and  look  at  me.  It  is 
to  this  invisible  witness  that  I  report  all  my  actions 
and  open  all  my  thoughts.  I  do  nothing  that  I 
should  not  wish  my  Adèle  to  see,  and  my  love  has 
become  to  me  a  second  conscience. 

My  dear  and  noble  friend,  it  is  thus  that  I  endeavor 
to  keep  myself  worthy  of  you;  for  if  I  had  not  made 
my  Adèle,  when  absent  from  me,  my  judge,  and  my 
consoler,  who  knows  what  might  have  become  of  me, 
abandoned  as  I  was  to  myself?  But  though  I  have 
no  mother,  I  have  a  wife  who  will  be  always  mine, 
and  I  am  sure  of  never  wanting  in  life  a  model  and 
an  example.     Only  what  troubles  me  is  that  I  have 

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so  many  faults,  for  besides  those  I  perceive  there  are 
doubtless  many  others  that  I  have  not  yet  seen.  I 
wish,  Adèle,  that  you  would  point  them  out  to  me, 
and  I  would  try  to  correct  them  so  that  you  might  be 
able  some  day  to  put  up  with  them.  You,  who  are 
perfect  yourself,  ought  to  have  a  perfect  husband. 
In  your  Victor  you  will  find,  at  most,  one  who  has 
done  all  he  could  to  become  so.  This  is  not  much  to 
promise  you,  but  it  is  all  that  I  can  do. 

Therefore,  my  kind  and  charming  Adèle,  have 
some  indulgence  for  my  errors,  for  they  do  not  come 
from  my  heart;  but  have  no  mercy  on  my  defects, 
because  some  day  they  may  mar  your  peace  of  mind. 
Save  me  from  such  a  misfortune  by  your  advice,  but 
love  me  always,  in  spite  of  my  imperfections.  Love 
me,  if  you  wish  me  to  live. 

Friday,  February  ist. 
Mme.  Delon  did  wrong  to  show  any  one  my  let- 
ter. I  am  sorry  for  her.  I  am  also  sorry  for  the  sin- 
gular way  in  which  your  father  spoke  to  me  of  that 
affair."  Your  mother  looked  on  it,  it  seems,  more 
generously.  I  am  telling  you  exactly  what  I  think. 
The  proposal  was  quite  natural  on  my  part.  It  was 
nothing  worthy  either  of  praise  or  blame,  and  even 
supposing  it  was  rash  and  foolish,  it  hardl3^  deserves 
the  grave  tone  of  displeasure  with  which  your  father 
spoke  to  me  of  it.     "  You  might  have  compromised 

*  Victor  had  offered  an  asylum  in  his  house  to  his  old  plaj'fellow, 
Edouard  Delon,  condemned  to  death  for  participation  in  the  Samur 
conspiracy.  "  I  was  too  well  known  as  a  Royalist,"  he  wrote  to 
Mme.  Delon,  "  to  make  it  likely  that  any  one  would  come  and  look 
for  him  in  my  bedchamber." 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

yourself,"  he  said.  I  don't  know  how  that  might  have 
been,  but  before  doing  a  right  thing  must  one  always 
pause  to  think  what  harm  may  come  of  it?  Dear 
love,  decide.  I  follow  blindly  whatever  you  tell  me. 
Had  I  been  in  Delon' s  position,  I  should  have  been 
very  thankful  had  he  done  for  me  what  I  did  for  him. 
That  is  enough. 

Mme.  Delon,  they  say,  puts  an  unkind  interpre- 
tation on  my  letter.  My  letter  was  opened  in  the 
post-office.  I  don't  believe  the  story  about  Mme. 
Delon,  because  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  de- 
spise people  without  good  proof.  I  want  to  think 
that  your  father  acted  on  a  first  impression,  without 
having  much  real  knowledge  of  the  case.  On  fur- 
ther examination,  he  would  have  found,  perhaps, 
reason  to  give  me  good  advice,  but  he  would  not 
have  reproached  me.  That  is  just  what  your  mother 
did,  because  women  are  better  than  men,  and  your 
mother  is  an  excellent  woman. 

Allow  me,  my  Adèle,  to  open  my  whole  heart  to 
you.  Your  father  is  not  always  what  he  ought  to  be 
to  me.  He  is  neither  cordial  nor  affectionate  to  one 
who  would  be  so  glad  to  love  him,  since  he  is  your 
father.  To  my  entire  confidence  he  responds  by 
discouraging  coldness.  His  conduct  to  me  proves 
that  he  does  not  know  my  character.  He  ought  to 
know  that  openness  with  me  will  go  further  than 
conduct  based  on  careful  calculations.  This  is  what 
her  own  instinctive  kindliness  has  made  known  to 
your  mother.  She  is  simple  and  open  with  me,  and 
she  may  be  always  sure  of  my  deep  and  sincere 
attachment. 

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The   Love   Letters    of  Victor  Hugo 

Do  not  think,  dear,  that  I  mean  to  blame  your 
father.  What  I  complain  of  is  a  very  slight  thing, 
and  there  is  nothing  really  unkind  in  what  he  does, 
because  he  does  all  for  3^our  happiness.  Only  I  think 
he  is  sometimes  mistaken  in  the  way  he  acts  towards 
me.  The  cleverest  people  err  sometimes.  But  I  shall 
never  blame  him,  for  I  have  no  doubt  he  is  all  pater- 
nal tenderness  to  j^ou,  and  possibly  he  may  have  a 
little  regard  for  me.  I  only  wanted  to  relieve  my- 
self from  a  weight  which  burdened  me,  and,  besides, 
I  ought  to  hide  nothing  from  Adèle,  my  beloved. 

Saturday,  February  gth,  9  P.M. 

What  have  I  done,  my  Adèle,  that  you  should  again 
speak  to  me  about  cruel  doubts  of  my  esteem?  .  .  . 
Dear  love,  if  I  have  taken  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
a  resolve  to  walk  carefully,  nobly,  and  without  turn- 
ing aside  on  that  road  of  life  where  prosperity  too 
often  can  only  be  bought  by  baseness,  be  persuaded, 
my  Adèle,  it  is  because  of  my  enthusiastic  passion 
for  you.  If  I  had  never  known  you,  the  most  pure 
and  most  adorable  of  all  created  beings,  who  knows 
what  I  might  have  been?  Oh,  Adèle,  it  is  your 
image  engraven  on  my  heart  which  has  developed 
the  germs  of  any  little  virtues  I  may  have  had. 

May  God  preserve  me  from  taking  from  my  ven- 
erable mother  what  I  owe  her,  but  it  is  undoubtedh^ 
true  that  if  I  have  had  the  strength  to  put  in  practice 
the  principles  in  which  she  brought  me  up,  it  is 
because  I  have  loved  an  angel-like  3^oung  girl,  and 
have  wanted  not  to  be  too  unworth3"  of  her.  Heavens  ! 
why  do  expressions  fail  me?     You  may  see,   my 

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The   Love   Letters   of  Victor   Hugo 

angel,  what  a  temple  ardent  love  has  raised  for  you 
in  your  Victor's  heart.  Now,  accuse  me  no  more  of 
madness.  Remember  that  the  feeling  you  inspire 
cannot  but  be  as  far  above  an  ordinary  passion  as 
you  are  above  the  world's  vulgar  women. 

A  demain.     A  thousand  caresses  and  a  thousand 
kisses  to  punish  you  for  doubting  my  esteem. 
Your  Faithful  and  Respectful  Husband. 

Sunday  Morning,  February  loth. 

After  the  bad  night  I  have  just  spent  I  wish,  at 
least,  to  pass  a  happy  morning,  my  beloved  Adèle, 
by  writing  to  you  at  the  very  time  that  I  know  you 
are  writing  to  me.  Yesterday  evening  when  I  left 
you  I  did  not  expect  to  have  a  good  night.  I  was 
too  anxious  and  too  agitated.  Yet,  that  I  might  not 
disobey  you,  I  resisted  the  temptation  of  writing  to 
you;  I  went,  instead,  to  bed  and  tried  to  sleep.  I 
thought  bitterly  of  the  tears  that  once  again  I  had 
made  you  shed,  of  the  fears  that  you  still  constantly 
entertain  that  you  may  have  incurred  the  contempt 
of  your  Victor,  and,  above  all,  I  thought  of  the  fright- 
ful account  you  had  given  me  of  that  horrible  quar- 
ry. Imagine,  my  Adèle,  what  a  night  I  must  have 
passed  ! 

Alas!  it  will  be  long  before  I  forget  that  I  could, 
however  involuntarily,  have  tortured  the  soul  of  my 
beloved,  my  gentle  Adèle,  to  do  a  thing  like  that! 
When  I  think  of  all  the  circumstances  that  3^ou  re- 
lated to  me,  I  shudder.  You  to  die! — angel!  What 
have  you  done  that  you  should  die?  And  all  be- 
cause of  me — great  God! — of  me,  whose  whole  life 

_I42 


The   Love   Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

is  not  worth  one  of  your  tears!  Great  God!  Great 
God!  .  .  . 

I  stopped  here  a  moment  that  I  might  think  of  some- 
thing else,  for  these  ideas  are  too  much  for  me.  It 
was  impossible.  All  that  I  had  endured  during  the 
night  came  vividly  back  to  me.  In  vain  you  smiled 
when  you  bade  me  adieu  ;  in  vain  I  recall  the  charming 
letter  which  I  read  and  re-read  yesterday  evening, 
and  which  I  covered  with  kisses.  One  painful  thought 
pursued  and  overwhelmed  me.  I  wanted  to  talk  to 
you  about  our  happiness,  that  rapturous  happiness 
which  now  appears  so  near,  and  then  I  think  how 
nearly,  only  yesterday,  it  came  to  being  destroyed 
forever.  What  can  we  dare  to  count  upon  in  this 
life? 

Oh,  my  Adèle,  could  you  for  one  moment  have 
thought  of  leaving  your  Victor  all  alone  upon  this 
earth,  and  of  adding  widowhood  to  his  present  lone- 
liness as  an  orphan?  If  you  have  been  so  cruel  as 
ever  to  have  entertained  such  a  frightful  idea,  I  tell 
you  beforehand  that  you  would  have  been  mistaken, 
for  I  should  not  have  survived  four  minutes  her  who 
is  my  life  and  soul.  I  should  have  died  at  the  same 
moment,  and  in  the  same  way,  that  I  might  be  sure 
of  following  her  at  once  into  eternity. 

Alas!  I  wish  I  could  get  rid  of  all  such  thoughts, 
which  for  hours  have  assailed  me,  and  I  am  power- 
less against  myself.  Adèle,  oh,  how  I  wish  I  could 
see  you  at  this  moment,  press  you  in  my  arms,  make 
sure  that  you  were  near  me,  really  living — for  I  can- 
not live  without  3'ou  !  Nothing  can  calm  me  now 
but  your  presence.     Until  I  can  see  you  I  must  en- 

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deavor  to  be  resigned.  But  I  shall  see  you  soon. 
Ah  !  how  sad  is  that  word  soon  when  I  need  your 
presence  immediately  ! 

You  will  smile  on  me,  will  you  not,  my  Adèle? 
At  this  moment,  when  I  am  so  lonely,  I  think  of  your 
smile  as  if  anticipating  the  felicity  of  the  angels.  I 
feel  as  if  it  would  cure  everything — would  compen- 
sate me  for  all  I  have  suffered  during  the  past  night. 
What  are  you  doing  at  this  moment?  Why  are  3^ou 
not  beside  your  Victor,  who  needs  you  so  greatly? 
Come,  bring  him  back  to  life  by  the  sight  of  you. 
Adèle,  I  am  athirst  to  see  you.  I  think  I  am  going 
mad. 

What!  can  you  really  love  me — you  who  to  me 
are  a  creature  more  divine  than  Divinity  itself? 
And  tell  me,  am  I  worthy  of  so  much  happiness? 
Take  pity  on  me,  Adèle,  for  all  that  reaches  me  from 
you  fills  me  either  with  rapture  or  despair. 

Adèle,  Adèle,  my  adored  angel,  I  shall  soon  see 
you.  I  can  kiss  the  lines  that  you  have  written, 
the  paper  that  your  hand  has  rested  on!  Adieu! 
I  cannot  pity  myself  when  I  remember  all  that  you 
have  done  for  me.     Adieu,  je  t'embrasse,  et  je  t'adore. 

Tuesday,  February  12th,  9  P.M. 

One  sentence  in  your  letter  troubles  me  very  much, 
my  Adèle.  It  is  the  one  in  which  you  threaten  never 
again  to  tell  me  of  what  you  call  your  "  little  suffer- 
ings. "  Such  little  sufferings  give  me  the  greatest  pain. 
I  cannot  tell  j^ou  how  much  that  cruel  threat  has 
troubled  me;  all  the  more  because  I  feel,  Adèle,  that 
you  will  put  it  in  practice,  and  fancy  that  you  are 

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doing  right  in  doing  so.  You  say  that  you  do  not 
like  to  give  me  pain.  Then,  above  all  things,  Adèle, 
you  ought  not  to  hide  your  anxieties  from  me — you 
ought  to  hide  nothing  from  me.  Oh,  promise  me — 
I  implore  you  on  my  knees — promise  to  continue  to 
tell  me  everything,  absolutely  everything,  that  you 
experience  ;  promise  me  that  in  such  a  way  that  I  can 
have  no  doubts  about  it.  Do  not  leave  me,  my  be- 
loved Adèle,  with  this  horrible  uncertainty  in  my 
heart. 

And  who  else,  Adèle,  should  be  your  confidant 
when  you  are  suffering?  You  cannot  expect  that  I 
should  see  you  suffer  without  suffering,  too.  Then, 
how  can  you  have  the  courage  to  deprive  me  of  that 
part  of  your  confidence  on  which  I  set  the  most  value? 
Do  not  be  led  into  error  about  this,  dear  love,  by  a 
generosity  which  would  make  me  miserable. 

Think,  rather,  of  the  insupportable  fears  that  I 
should  have  continually  if  I  had  to  imagine  that  my 
Adèle,  my  adored  wife,  might  be  suffering  from  some 
cause,  mental  or  physical,  and  had  not  let  me  take 
my  share  in  it!  If  I  am  able,  Adèle,  to  take  some 
sleep  at  night  and  enjo^^  some  peace  by  day,  it  is 
only  if  I  can  feel  sure  that  you  have  no  secret  that  is 
not  known  to  me.  Think,  Adèle,  how  impossible  it 
is  that  I  can  know  that  you  are  suffering  without 
pain,  because  I  love  you;  and  think,  too,  what  would 
be  my  misery  if  I  had  to  imagine  that  you  were 
liiding  any  one  of  your  troubles  from  me! 

Adieu,  my  adored  Adèle;   adieu,  my  wife,  beloved 
angel!     I  cannot  get  accustomed  to  quitting  j^ou  at 
eight  o'clock,  even  if  I  come  home  to  write  to  you. 
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The  day  will  come  (it  is  not  now  far  distant)  when  this 
hour,  instead  of  separating  us,  as  it  does  now,  will 
unite  us  more  closely  and  more  intimately.  Adieu; 
I  will  try  to  dream  about  this  happiness.  Mean- 
while, je  t'embrasse  mille  fois. 

Thursday  Morning,  February  i/ith. 

I  hardly  know  what  kind  of  a  letter  I  might  have 
written  you  to-day,  Adèle,  for  I  own  I  went  away 
on  Sunday  evening  melancholy,  and  not  satisfied 
with  you;  but  yesterday  I  saw  you,  and  all  the  clouds 
have  passed  away.  I  was  sad  when  I  met  you,  but 
the  unexpected  joy  restored  my  serenity.  Let  us  for- 
get it  all.  And  I  dare  say  you  cannot  yourself  re- 
member all  that  distressed  me  so  much  on  Sunday. 
Dear  Adèle,  I  am  sure  you  would  not  amuse  yourself 
by  tormenting  me  in  the  few  moments  I  can  be  with 
you,  if  you  remembered  that  it  is  only  when  with  you 
that  I  find  happiness  and  repose.  I  cannot  refrain 
from  blessing  the  chance  which  led  me  to  cross  your 
path  yesterday,  at  a  moment  when  I  had  such  need 
of  a  sight  of  you.  The  fermentation  of  spirit  pro- 
duced by  a  solitary  life,  of  course,  has  its  effect  on 
my  ideas.  It  had  carried  my  depression  to  a  climax,  I 
hardly  know  what  extravagant  thoughts  were  surg- 
ing through  my  brain  when  my  good  angel  sudden- 
ly appeared  before  me,  and  offered  me  the  only  con- 
solation for  all  my  troubles.  My  only  regret  is  that 
sight  of  me  cannot  possibly  have  produced  on  you 
the  same  impression,  for  I  must  have  been  looking 
like  a  ghost. 

Adieu  then,  dear,  until  to-morrow. 

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Friday,  Past  Midnight,  February  i^th. 
I  shall  not  tr}^,  my  dear,  my  very  dear  Adèle, 
to  write  to  you  about  the  effect  your  letter  has  just 
produced  upon  me.  I  did  not  expect  to  be  so  severe- 
ly blamed  b}^  you  and  by  all  your  family  for  a  few 
words  that  no  doubt  escaped  me  in  the  heat  of  a  dis- 
cussion, in  which,  however,  I  think,  if  my  memory 
serves  me,  I  took  the  side  of  order  and  morality, 
though  possibly  with  an  exaggeration  some,  however, 
might  have  thought  excusable  at  my  age.  I  may  have 
said  many  flippant  things;  I  may  have  put  forth 
many  crude  ideas.  One  phrase  seems  especially  to 
have  struck  you.  I  perfectly  remember  that  I  used 
those  intemperate  words,  and  I  was  sorry  for  them 
immediately.  I  think,  as  j^ou  do,  that  the  hideous, 
ignoble  names  of  instruments  of  execution,  and  of 
the  men  whose  business  it  is  to  use  them,  ought  never 
to  sully  a  man's  mouth.  I  cannot  think  how  I  ever 
came  to  utter  them.  It  must  have  been  because  I 
was  stirred  out  of  myself  by  the  provoking  remarks 
of  those  who  were  opposing  me,  and  had  lost  my  bet- 
ter reason,  a  sad  result,  to  which  such  controversies 
too  often  lead.  And  that  is  one  reason  why,  with 
all  my  heart,  I  detest  discussions. 

But  what  pains  me,  my  Adèle,  and  has  cruelly 
wounded  me,  is  that  any  one  could  for  a  moment 
have  supposed  that  such  ideas,  expressed  in  a  casual 
conversation,  could  have  thrown  doubts  upon  our 
chance  of  married  happiness. 

What  distresses  me  is  that  they  could  have  induced 
you  to  share  those  fears,  for  I  cannot  think  that  you 
could  have  conceived  them  by  yourself,  since  you 

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never  have  led  me  to  suppose  that  you  entertain  a 
profound  contempt  for  me. 

Do  you  fully  comprehend  how  bad  it  is  for  us  to 
mix  up  ideas  of  adultery  with  our  marriage  ?  No,  it 
could  not  have  struck  you.  Would  that  you  really 
knew  my  character  !  Why  could  you  not  have  heard, 
a  short  time  since,  the  jests  that  were  made  upon 
me,  because,  when  certain  young  men  asked  me  if 
/  would  not  kill  my  wife  if  I  should  take  her  in  adul- 
tery, I  answered  simply  that  /  should  kill  myself. 

However,  why  should  I  tell  you  these  things?  I 
do  not  need,  I  am  sure,  to  justify  myself  to  my  own 
Adèle,  and  the  cruel  letter  that  you  sent  me  was  not 
from  you.  Oh!  my  Adèle,  can  you  think  I  would 
ever  torment  you?  See,  look  into  your  own  heart, 
and  you  will  laugh  at  such  a  supposition.  Do  you 
not  know  I  am  your  slave,  your  property,  and  that 
I  would  give  a  thousand  lives  to  spare  you  one  tear? 
Adèle,  do  not  condemn  me,  I  implore  you,  for  a  few  in- 
considerate words — I  hardly  know  what  they  were — 
but  judge  me  by  the  little  you  know  of  my  heart  and 
of  my  character.  Good  Heaven  !  can  you  have  written 
thus?  "  What  will  my  fate  he  ?  I  CANNOT  TELL. 
Last  evening  has  left  an  impression  upon  me  which 
it  will  he  hard  to  efface."  Adèle,  should  you  not  have 
remembered  that  such  fatal  words  of  doubt  would  be 
impressed  upon  my  heart,  as  it  were,  with  a  red-hot 
iron?  Oh!  you  can  be  very  cruel  sometimes,  dear 
love!  Again,  you  say  I  may  feel  for  you  almost  ad- 
miration, when  you  know  that  I  feel  for  you  an  ad- 
miration strong,  deep,  and  entire,  a  worship  of  love, 
devotion,  and  enthusiasm?    Ah!  it  is  not  you  who 

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can  ever  have  said  that  "  some  day  you  might  tremble 
before  me."  No;  such  ideas  could  never  have  come 
from  yourself.  Beware,  I  implore  you,  my  noble 
Adèle,  of  adopting  the  suggestions  of  strangers; 
judge  me  with  your  own  judgment,  see  me  with  your 
own  eyes.  I  am  already  worth  so  little  in  my  own 
sight  that  I  grow  indignant  at  the  idea  of  becoming 
less  so  in  yours. 

You  have  reproached  me  with  something  else,  and 
it  is  a  reproach  that  I  feel  deeply.  You  say  I  see 
nothing  but  mediocrity  in  other  people.  In  the 
first  place,  dear,  I  beg  you  to  think  that  my  sup- 
posed superiority  is  nothing  in  my  own  eyes.  I 
look  at  things  from  a  higher  point  of  view.  '  Worldly 
fame  can  never  be  anything  to  me  in  comparison 
with  the  angelic  happiness  laid  up  for  him  who  will 
one  day  share  your  life.  All  I  care  for  in  this 
world  is  you;  to  you  only  I  aspire;  for  you  only  I 
live.  In  general,  it  is  true  that  the  larger  part  of 
mankind  are  vulgar  and  commonplace  ;  I  think  I  de- 
spise them  en  masse,  but  if  I  encounter  among  them 
a  few  beings  worthy  of  the  name  of  men,  I  love  and 
admire  them  the  more.  I  place  you,  my  beloved 
Adèle,  at  the  head  of  all  such  beings. 

I  care  very  little,  I  must  own,  for  what  is  merely 
conventional,  for  creeds  held  in  common,  for  con- 
victions that  are  traditional.  This  is  because  I 
think  that  a  prudent  man  ought  to  examine  things 
for  himself,  and  use  his  own  reason,  before  he  accepts 
them.  If  he  should  make  a  mistake,  it  will  not  be 
counted  to  him  for  a  fault.  Well,  possibly  I  am 
wrong  in  all  my  ideas,  but  I  think  I  may  say  I  have 

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not  made  the  error  of  depreciating  everybody.  On 
the  contrary,  men  look  upon  me  as  an  enthusiast. 
The  fact  is  that  the  hfe  I  am  fitted  for,  if  I  can  attain 
it,  is  one  that  will  be  quiet,  happy,  and  obscure.  I 
wish  for  nothing  so  much  as  domestic  life  and  the 
care  of  a  family.  Why  cannot  you  know  me  better 
than  you  do? 

At  all  events,  my  love,  your  humility  is  charming, 
though  it  sometimes  makes  me  angry.  You  say 
you  defer  to  my  opinions;  but,  indeed,  thus  far  I 
have  not  seen  that  deference,  and  you  on  your  part 
may  have  often  seen  what  great  confidence  I  place 
in  your  advice,  and  with  what  docility  I  obey  you. 
I  would  even  dare  confide  to  you  the  whole  manage- 
ment of  my  life,  secure  in  the  nobleness  of  your 
views  and  the  grandeur  of  your  soul. 

Adieu;  it  is  very  late.  I  embrace  you  tenderly. 
What  a  delicious  evening  I  have  just  passed  with 
you!     It  makes  me  forgive  your  letter. 

Adèle,  love  me;  for  Heaven  knows  that  no  one 
has  ever  loved  as  I  love  you. 

Adieu.  Try  to  read  my  scrawl.  Oh!  how  much 
I  love  you,  and  how  much  you  can  sometimes  tor- 
ment me! 

Your  Husband;  Your  Faithful  and 
Devoted  Slave. 

Saturday  Evening,  February  i6th. 
Adèle,  I  will  not  read  your  letter  before  I  have  re- 
lieved my  heart  of   what  is   weighing  on  it  now. 
Alas!  I  am  not  at  this  moment  capable  of  finding 
happiness  in  anything.     Yes,  I  left  you  with  a  full 

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and  aching  heart.  There  are  moments  when  I  real- 
ize why  some  men  wish  to  die.  You  doubted  me 
this  evening.  Adèle,  you  expressed  those  cruel 
doubts  in  a  very  cruel  way.  You  told  me  —  me, 
Adèle — me — I  who  adore  you,  whose  life  is  linked 
with  yours,  whose  heart  is  in  thy  heart — you  said 
\o  me  words  that  perhaps  I  have  rather  the  sad 
right  to  say  to  you.  You  said,/  You  do  not  love 
me"  These  words  from  your  lips  rend  my  heart 
like  the  most  cruel  irony,  and  I  might  add  that 
they  seemed  like  the  most  heartless  ingratitude,  if  it 
were  possible  that  you  ever  could  be  ungrateful 
to  me. 

Adèle,  I  would  gladly  do  for  you  a  thousand  times 
more  than  the  little  I  have  been  able  to  do.  I  would 
do  all  that  I  could  find  the  means  of  doing.  I  would 
give  up  my  future  hopes,  my  blood,  my  life,  my  very 
soul;  I  would  die  in  the  most  horrible  torments  if 
that  could  cause  you  a  moment's  happiness,  and 
you  would  owe  me  nothing,  not  even  a  tear,  not  a  sigh, 
not  a  regret;  and  if  between  two  scenes  of  pleasure 
you  deigned  to  remember  for  one  moment  the  Victor 
who  had  died  for  you,  it  would  be  his  sufficient  re- 
ward, the  only  one  he  would  have  the  presumption 
to  claim  from  you.  Do  not  think  I  am  saying  any- 
thing but  what  is  deeply  engraven  in  my  heart. 
No,  Adèle,  you  owe  me  nothing  ;  you  can  never  owe 
me  anything,  whatever  I  may  do  for  you — not  even 
a  little  gratitude.  The  absolute  devotion  with  which 
I  would  sacrifice  all  I  am  to  j^ou  is  my  first  duty.  I 
should  deserve  nothing  for  fulfilling  it,  and,  I  repeat, 
you  would  not  even  be  ungrateful  if  you  forgot  me 

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the  very  moment  after  I  had  made  my  sacrifice.  I 
should  only  have  fulfilled  my  destiny. 

I  am,  therefore,  very  far  from  reproaching  you 
with  having  kept  no  remembrance  of  the  few  little 
proofs  of  love  I  have  been  able  thus  far  to  give  you. 
I  might  die  for  you  to-morrow,  and  you  might  not 
even  notice  it.  The  thing  would  seem  quite  natural 
to  you.  All  I  ask  of  you,  Adèle,  is,  not  gratitude, 
but  pity.  It  is  the  generosity  of  your  angel  character 
that  I  invoke,  entreating  you  never  again  to  accuse 
me  of  not  loving  you. 

I  know  very  well  that  I  have  no  claim  on  your  pity 
nor  on  your  generosity  ;  but,  Adèle,  all  I  ask  of  you 
is  to  spare  me  a  sorrow  that  I  cannot  bear,  that  of 
seeing  you  misdoubt  me.  I  ask  you  this  as  a  boon. 
If  my  words  seem  insincere  to  you,  if  you  do  not 
choose  to  credit  my  love,  at  least,  I  implore  you,  do 
not  openly  show  me  your  disdain,  but  let  me  think 
that  so  many  words  of  love,  so  many  actions  so  long 
prompted  bj''  love,  have  not  been  thrown  away,  and 
that  I  have  not  lived  without  inspiring  in  your  heart 
some  little  confidence  in  me. 

Yes,  if  it  was  only  to  mislead  me  that  you  led  me 
to  believe  you  loved  me,  tell  me  so  at  once,  frankly 
and  pitilessly;  tell  me  that  you  do  not  believe  my 
words,  that  you  care  nothing  for  my  love,  and  let  me 
die.  You  reminded  me  this  evening,  Adèle,  of  all 
that  you  have  done  for  me,  of  all  that  you  would 
deign  to  do  for  me.  Alas!  the  day  when  you  let 
your  glance  fall  upon  me  you  did  more  for  me  than  I 
could  do  for  you  if  I  gave  you  my  life.  You  were 
quite  right  to  ask  me  this  evening  what  good  would 

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my  death  do  you.  All  it  could  do  would  be  to  bear 
testimony  to  the  most  ardent  love  that  ever  was  in- 
spired by  a  human  being,  who  is,  verily,  the  most 
angelic  of  all  created  things. 

Adieu.  When  I  consider  that  I  can  only  offer  you 
my  death  in  exchange  for  one  of  your  glances  or  one 
of  your  words,  I  am  frightened  at  my  nothingness. 
What  am  I  in  comparison  with  you?  Adieu,  my 
Adèle.  Let  me  call  you  my  adored  Adèle,  although 
you  refuse  to  believe  me.  I  suffer  much.  Only  you 
could  have  cured  me  this  evening.  You  would  not, 
and  your  will  be  done!  Adieu,  angel.  I  am  now 
going  to  read  your  beloved  letter,  to  kiss  it,  and  to 
kiss  your  lock  of  hair,  all  of  you  that  really  now 
belongs  to  me.     Adieu. 

Sunday,  February  17th. 

Your  two  letters,  my  Adèle,  have  filled  my  heart 
with  joy  and  gratitude,  and  I  hasten  to  write  this 
morning  a  few  words,  to  ask  you  to  forget  my  ex- 
travagance and  my  folly. 

Tell  me,  have  you  been  suffering  much  during 
the  night?  I  will  consult  an  experienced  doctor  to- 
morrow, and  tell  him  all  that  you  told  me.  My  dear 
love,  either  do  not  suffer  yourself  or  let  me  suffer 
with  you.  Give  me,  I  implore  you,  courage  to  bear 
your  pain.  The  reason  you  are  sick,  Adèle,  is  be- 
cause something  must  remind  you  that  you  are  of 
the  same  nature  as  the  rest  of  mankind.  When 
you  die  you  will  resume  your  wings,  but  you  will  not 
die  until  after  I  am  gone,  for  you  are  young,  beauti- 
ful, and  healthy,  and  God  would  not  willingly  cut 
short  a  life  of  virtue. 

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Adèle,  do  not  talk  to  me  of  such  melancholy  things, 
which,  happily,  are  most  improbable.  Renjember,  I 
am  much  alone,  and  ideas  in  my  brain  ferment  in 
solitude.  Adieu.  Write  me,  I  implore  you,  a  very 
long  letter,  since  we  cannot  talk  to  each  other.  But 
I  must  stop.  I  write  twenty  pages  to  you  in  my 
thoughts  before  my  pen  has  traced  one  line.  Adieu. 
I  should  be  nothing  but  for  the  afïection  that  you 
deign  to  feel  for  me,  and  the  love  I  bear  you.  Love 
me  always,  and  cherish  some  thoughts  of  me  in  your 
noble  heart. 

Your  Husband. 

Thursday  Morning,  February  21st. 

Adèle,  yesterday  evening  j^'ou  repeated  the  re- 
proach, which  is  so  cruel  on  your  part.  You  told  me 
once  more  that  I  love  you  less  than  I  once  did,  while 
it  seems  to  me  that  every  day  I  love  you  more  and 
more.  Certainly  I  do  not  write  to  you,  I  do  not  see 
you,  as  often  as  I  wish.  I  pass  very  few  moments 
in  your  companj^  and  others,  which  I  would  most 
gladly  consecrate  to  writing  to  you,  I  am  forced — to 
say  nothing  of  interruptions  from  many  friends  and 
the  intrusion  of  acquaintances — to  employ  on  four 
important  pieces  of  work,  my  two  pensions,  my 
essay,  and  the  romance  I  am  writing. 

It  seems  to  me  that  a  man  so  occupied  ought  not  to 
be  expected  to  comply  with  the  minor  obligations  of 
social  life,  when  his  soul,  as  it  were,  is  living  in 
another  sphere,  a  sphere  of  enthusiasm,  of  enchant- 
ment, and  of  love.  For  these  are  the  feelings  with 
which  jT^ou  fill  my  thoughts,  this  the  ideal  world  j^ou 

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have  created  for  your  Victor.  Adèle,  my  adored 
Adèle  !  .  .  .  And  who  knows  but  that  this  very 
evening  you  will  reproach  me  for  not  loving  you! 

Friday,  February  22d. 

My  dearest  wish,  my  beloved  Adèle,  is  that  you 
could  know  my  heart,  even  as  you  know  your  own. 
Then  you  would  be  convinced  that  there  is  not  (I 
will  not  say  one  of  its  emotions  but)  one  single  im- 
pulse in  all  my  being  that  does  not  turn  towards  you. 
Even  when  absent,  my  soul  and  my  eyes  turn  towards 
you;  and  sometimes  I  call  aloud  to  you  in  a  sudden 
transport.  If  I  discover  that  I  might  by  chance  see 
you  as  you  pass  along  some  street,  nothing  pre- 
vents me  from  watching  hours  for  your  coming.  Too 
often  this  is  useless.  If  you  appear,  I  am  always 
near  enough — though  at  a  distance — to  defend  you, 
to  save  you  from  I  know  not  what  imaginary  peril, 
for  I  am  always  in  fear  of  such  for  j^ou.  You  see, 
Adèle,  I  \3iy  bare  to  j^ou,  without  pity  for  myself,  all 
my  own  follies.     You,  perhaps,  will  laugh  at  me. 

Ah!  no.  Is  it  not  true,  my  adored  Adèle,  that  you 
will  not  laugh?  But  may  it  not  be  likewise  true  that 
from  henceforth  you  will  no  longer  accuse  me  of 
not  loving  you?  Think  over  all  my  words,  all  my 
thoughts,  all  my  actions,  Adèle,  and  confess  that  it 
was  a  very  cruel  thing  in  you  to  have  reproached  me 
for  a  want  of  love. 

Half-past  Fotir. 

In  a  short  time  I  shall  see  you!  How  long  that 
short  time  seems!  At  least,  I  can  pass  part  of  it  in 
writing  to  you  ;  that  will  relieve  its  tediousness. 

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I  have  been  running  about  again  all  day.  One 
has  to  take  many  useless  steps  before  one  can  set 
one  that  is  useful.  Somebody  said  to  me  to-day, 
"You  have  everything  that  insures  success,  except 
the  good-luck  to  he  unworthy  of  it."  There  is  much 
sense  in  that,  Adèle.  It  is  worth  thinking  over.  All 
sorts  of  people  reproach  me  for  not  being  pushing, 
intriguing,  and  so  on  ;  for  not  knowing  how  to  solicit 
favors  from  a  newspaper  editor  or  a  minister,  for 
carrying  what  they  call  the  conscious  pride  of  talent 
so  far  that  I  seem  to  put  no  value  on  the  possession 
of  fame.  For  myself,  Adèle,  I  cannot  tell  if  I  have 
talent,  but  I  wish  I  could  be  worthy  to  have  it,  and, 
above  all,  I  desire  to  be  worthy  of  you.  I  own  that 
I  despise  all  by-ways  to  success.  I  think  that  fame 
and  happiness  are  noble  ends  only  to  be  reached  by 
noble  paths.  I  will  do  all  1  think  I  ought,  and  I  will 
so  conduct  myself  that  my  conduct  may  in  every 
respect  meet  your  approval.  Tell  me,  my  beloved 
Adèle,  are  not  these  thoughts  your  thoughts,  you 
who  are  to  sit  in  judgment  over  all  my  actions 
while  you  are  the  idol  of  all  my  thoughts?  Ought 
I  to  despair  of  the  future?  I  have  never  deviated 
from  the  road  that  I  marked  out  for  myself,  and  I 
am  on  the  eve  of  obtaining  the  two  pensions  which 
will  assure  me  the  happiness  of  my  whole  life.  Oh 
no!  Let  us  have  good  hope,  and  let  cowards  and 
fools  talk  as  they  will.  Adieu,  angel;  adieu,  my 
adored  Adèle. 

Your  Respectful  and 
Faithful  Husband. 
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Saturday. 
Far  from  being  displeased,  dear  Adèle,  with  your 
letter,  it  has  made  me  very  happy,  like  all  those 
that  you  write  me  in  a  tone  of  truth  and  tenderness. 
How  can  you  think  that  I  should  with  any  repug- 
nance see  you  throw  open  your  whole  heart  to  me, 
when  I  desire  above  all  things  to  be  the  confidant  of 
your  thoughts?  Be  thoroughly  convinced  that  you 
may — I  say  more,  that  you  ought — to  tell  me  every- 
thing. It  would  be  ungenerous  on  my  part  to  require 
you  always  to  speak  to  me  of  your  affection,  and 
never  of  your  anxieties  ;  besides,  these  anxieties 
spring  from  your  affection.  How,  then,  could  they 
displease  me?  When  you  ask  me  how  I  spend  my 
time,  you  are  doing,  Adèle,  just  what  I  should  do  in 
your  place  ;  what  I  should,  indeed,  have  asked  sooner 
had  I  been  you.  Do  not,  therefore,  I  implore  you, 
wrong  me  so  far  as  to  take  so  many  precautions  to 
lead  up  to  so  natural  a  question,  a  question  that  I 
delighted  to  have  you  ask,  because  it  showed  an 
interest  in  my  actions.  Have  you  not  a  right  to  all 
my  confidence,  as  I  have  to  all  yours?  I  wish  3^ou 
could  ask  me  every  evening  what  I  have  been  doing 
during  the  day,  because  then  I  could  have  praise 
from  you  when  I  had  been  well  employed,  and 
blame  when  I  had  wasted  my  time.  I  feel  sure  that 
then  very  little  would  be  wasted. 

Dear  love,  I  am  charmed  to  see  that  you  are  not  in- 
different to  what  occupies  me.  I  have  been  afraid 
you  might  be,  and  that  is  the  only  reason  I  have  kept 
silent  on  the  subject.  What!  may  mere  friends 
know  what  work  employs  me  day  by  day,  while  you, 

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my  Adèle,  my  wife,  the  inspiration  of  my  genius, 
you  who  are  all  in  all  to  me,  are  to  know  nothing! 
Why  did  you  not  speak  to  me  on  this  subject  sooner? 
Why  did  you  so  long  leave  me  to  think  that  the 
employment  of  my  time  and  the  nature  of  my  work 
did  not  interest  you? 

Most  certainly,  I  shall  gladly  talk  on  this  subject 
with  your  father,  now  I  know  that  this  proof  of  con- 
fidence will  please  you.  I  have  not  done  it  before, 
Adèle,  because  it  has  never  been  m3^  custom  to  speak 
first  to  others  about  my  literary  labors.  I  do  not 
care  to  call  the  attention  of  others  to  what  I  am  doing. 
It  is  a  feeling  of  reserve  that  I  know  you  will  under- 
stand. When  you  live  with  me,  when  you  take  your 
place  in  the  sphere  in  which  I  move,  you  will  be  sur- 
prised, dear,  to  find  in  me  another  Victor,  a  Victor  you 
have  never  known,  one  of  whom  I  have  been  reluc- 
tant to  speak  to  you,  because  I  loved  best  to  be  to 
you  only  your  Victor,  your  slave,  and  your  husband. 
Be  very  sure,  my  Adèle,  that  the  one  Victor  will  never 
hurt  the  other.  It  is  only  because  I  am  so  sure  of 
this  that  I  can  tolerate  in  myself  the  existence  of 
another  individual  whom  you  do  not  yet  know. 

I  will  not  speak  more  clearly,  for  if  I  ever  ought  to 
lay  aside  all  amour-propre,  it  is  assuredly  with  you. 
However,  if  I  must  tell  you  the  truth,  yours  is  the 
only  house  in  which  I  visit  where  my  occupations 
are  looked  upon  with  complete  indifference.  You 
tell  me  it  was  discretion  on  the  part  of  your  parents. 
I  understand  that  perfectly,  and  return  them  thanks. 
You  remind  me,  dear,  that  "  six  months  have  passed," 
and  you  add  that  these  six  months  "  might  have  been 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

more  profitably  employed."  I  cannot  think  that  that 
was  really  what  you  meant  to  say,  for  I  know  you  are 
too  just  to  condemn  me  before  you  know  the  truth. 

One  other  word  before  I  begin  to  tell  you  what 
has  kept  me  busy  these  six  months.  I  shall  talk  to 
you,  Adèle,  of  works  begun,  compositions  merely 
sketched  out,  of  enterprises,  in  short,  which  success 
has  not  yet  crowned.  I  can  speak  of  them  frankly 
to  you,  who  are  all  indulgence,  and  who  will  not 
love  me  less  for  having  experienced  a  reverse  than 
for  having  achieved  a  triumph;  but  you  know  it 
would  have  been  presumptuous  on  my  part  to  raise 
your  parents'  hopes  on  the  result  of  works  still  in 
their  infancy.  This  consideration,  joined  to  that  I 
have  already  mentioned,  will  explain  my  silence. 
Now  I  come  to  facts. 

Last  May  the  need  I  felt  of  expressing  certain  ideas 
which  occupied  my  thoughts,  and  could  not  be  well 
done  in  French  verse,  led  me  to  undertake  a  kind  of 
prose  romance.  My  soul  was  filled  with  love,  sor- 
row, and  with  the  thoughts  of  youth;  I  no  longer 
had  you  ;  I  dared  not  confide  the  secrets  of  my  heart 
to  any  living  creature.  I  chose  a  mute  confidant, 
my  pen  and  paper.  I  knew  indeed  that  this  work 
would  certainly  bring  in  some  money,  but  when  I 
began  the  book  that  consideration  was  a  secondary 
one.  I  wanted  to  pour  out  the  tumultuous  agitations 
of  my  heart  while  they  were  fresh  and  ardent,  the 
bitterness  of  my  regrets,  and  the  uncertainty  of  my 
hopes. 

I  wanted  to  paint  a  3'oung  girl  who  should  realize 
the  ideal  of  all  my  fresh  and  poetic  imaginations;  a 

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young  girl  like  her  whom  I  had  dreamed  of  in  my 
boyhood,  whom  I  had  known  when  I  grew  up  ;  pure, 
proud,  angelical — it  was  yourself,  my  beloved  Adèle, 
whom  I  wished  to  paint,  in  hopes  of  giving  myself 
sad  comfort  as  I  traced  the  likeness  of  her  whom  I 
had  lost,  and  whom  thenceforth  I  could  only  see  in  a 
far-distant  future.  I  wanted  to  place  beside  this  girl 
a  young  man,  not  such  as  I  am,  but  such  as  I  wish 
to  be.  These  two  beings  controlled  the  development 
of  an  event,  partly  historical  and  partly  invented, 
which  brought  out  a  great  moral  lesson,  which  was 
the  basis  of  the  composition.  Around  the  two  prin- 
cipal characters  I  grouped  a  number  of  other  per- 
sonages, in  order  to  vary  the  scenes  and  to  make  the 
wheels  of  the  story  go  round.  These  personages 
were  grouped  in  various  ways,  according  to  their  rel- 
ative importance. 

My  romance  was  a  long  drama,  the  scenes  of  which 
were  tableaux,  in  which  description  supplied  the  place 
of  stage  scenery  and  costume.  In  all  other  respects 
the  characters  depicted  themselves.  It  was  an  idea 
which  the  works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  had  suggested 
to  me,  and  that  I  wanted  to  attempt  in  the  interest 
of  French  literature. 

I  spent  much  time  in  collecting  for  this  romance 
historical  and  geographical  materials,  and  still  more 
time  in  working  out  the  conception,  in  utilizing 
crude  masses  of  information,  in  combining  details. 
I  employed  on  this  work  all  my  faculties,  so  that 
when  I  wrote  the  first  line  I  knew  what  I  was  going 
to  say  in  the  last. 

I  had  hardly  begun  to  write  the  book  when  a  terrible 

i6o 


The    Love   Letters   of   Victor  Hugo 

misfortune  befell  me,  dispersing  my  ideas  and  up- 
setting all  my  plans.  I  laid  the  work  aside  until 
I  went  to  Dreux,  where  I  had  occasion  to  speak  about 
it  to  your  father,  not  as  a  great  literary  attempt, 
but  as  a  good  literary  speculation.  That  was  all 
your  father  wanted.  When  I  returned  to  Paris  I 
roused  myself  from  my  long  apathy.  The  hope  of 
belonging  one  day  to  you  came  back  to  me.  I  worked 
steadily  at  my  book  until  last  October,  when  I  fin- 
ished the  fifteenth  chapter. 

At  that  time  a  great  subject  for  tragedy  came  into 
my  mind.  I  spoke  about  it  to  Soumet,  who  advised 
me  to  attempt  it  at  once.  I  had  begun  to  work  when 
I  received  orders  to  prepare  a  rapport  académique,^' 
which  I  mentioned  to  you  at  the  time,  and  which 
kept  me  occupied  until  the  end  of  November.  Last 
December  I  made  an  ode  on  the  plague,  that  the  Aca- 
démie des  Jeux  Floraux  requested  of  me  for  one  of 
its  public  meetings,  and  at  last,  on  January  1st,  I 
wanted  to  go  back  to  my  tragedy,  when  the  same 
friend  whom  I  have  mentioned  above  came  and 
proposed  to  me  to  join  him  in  making  a  drama  out 
of  that  admirable  work,  Kenilworth,  which  3^ou  have 
read.  As  this  might  bring  me  in  several  thousand 
francs,  I  accepted  the  offer,  and  consented  to  co- 
operate with  him;  and  now,  as  I  write  this,  I  have 
finished  the  two  first  acts  If  Soumet  were  not  so 
much  occupied  with  his  tragedy  of  "  Clytemnestre," 
our  play,  of  wliich  I  was  to  do  three  acts  and  he  two, 
might  have  been  fniished  in  one  month,  and  acted  in 

*  This  essay  on  Gil  Bias,  Victor  Hugo  was  requested  to  write  by 
François  de  Neuf  château. 

L  l6l 


The   Love   Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

six.  But  it  was  to  be  anonymous.  I  consented  to 
undertake  the  work,  my  love,  only  for  your  sake, 
and  in  order  to  prove  to  your  parents  that  there  can 
be  a  money  value  in  letters. 

Adieu.  I  am  very  much  hurried.  From  this 
time,  my  adored  Adèle,  give  your  husband  your  en- 
tire confidence.  I  will  show  you  my  work  if  you  take 
an  interest  in  it;  I  will  speak  to  you  of  my  projects; 
I  will  even  tell  you  of  the  annoyances  caused  me  by 
my  literary  associates.  Ingratitude  and  care  for 
number  one  only  are  two  sad  things.  Adieu;  never 
fear  you  can  be  indiscreet.  Your  questions  always 
give  me  pleasure.  I  love  you  more  than  any  man 
has  ever  loved.     Deign  to  permit  me  to  embrace  you. 

If  you  can  read  this  scrawl,  remember  that  I  am 
very  busy.  It  is  a  quarter  past  seven,  and  I  am  not 
yet  dressed. 

Adieu,  adieu! 

Wednesday. 

To-day  I  have  worked  almost  the  whole  time,  dear, 
and  I  am  afraid  I  have  done  nothing  of  any  account, 
so  I  am  sad  and  depressed.  I  am  still  absent  from 
you,  but  I  am  not  forgotten,  am  I,  my  Adèle? 

I  shall  feel  great  joy  in  showing  you  all  that  I  am  do- 
ing, and  all  that  I  mean  to  do.  Cease  to  feel  any  un- 
certainty on  this  subject.  I  would  like  to  show  you 
everything,  were  I  sure  that  you  alone  would  see  it. 
But  I  know  that  is  almost  impossible.  I  only  ask 
that  you  may  judge  my  works  without  taking  the 
opinions  of  any  other  persons,  for  it  is  your  judg- 
ment only  I  shall  care  for.  Your  judgment  alone 
I  am  eager  to  receive,  and  it  will  be  of  real  value 

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The   Love    Letters    of   Victor   Hugo 

to  me.  Therefore,  condemn  or  approve  according  as 
things  strike  3'ou.  I  shall  religiously  pay  attention 
to  what  you  say,  as  one  would  to  the  judgment  of 
some  angelic  and  superior  being.  When  I  know  you 
are  guided  only  by  your  own  heart  and  your  own 
soul,  how  can  I  fail  to  have  a  deep  respect  for  the 
impressions  you  may  confide  to  me?  I  always  have 
thought  that  a  man  of  letters  ought  to  have  one  sole 
adviser,  either  a  wife  such  as  you  are  or  a  man  of 
genius.  For  my  part,  I  might  make  my  choice 
among  the  last,  but  it  is  by  my  Adèle  I  desire  to  be 
judged  without  appeal. 

Thursday. 

I  have  read  over  what  I  wrote  yesterday,  and  now, 
to  come  back  to  it,  I  beg  you  to  tell  me,  in  all  sincerit}'', 
what  effect,  good  or  bad,  has  been  produced  on  j^ou 
by  the  writings  I  have  sent  you.  They  have,  of 
course  I  know,  many  faults  that  the  indulgence  of 
my  friends  has  not  permitted  them  to  point  out  to 
me,  but  those  faults  you  will  show  me,  my  Adèle, 
when  they  strike  you.  Only  try  to  take  nobody's 
opinion  but  your  own.  You  would  have  discouraged 
the  author  of  Les  Martyrs  if  3^ou  had  spoken  to  him 
of  his  book  as  you  did  to  me  the  other  day,  onlj^ 
assuredly-  j^ou  expressed  second-hand  opinions.  The 
more  I  trust  you,  the  more  I  mistrust  others.  Be, 
therefore,  my  adviser  3^ourself.  You  can  do  anj''- 
thing  with  me.     Let  me  owe  vou  all. 

Remember  that  if  I  am  talking  onh^  of  myself,  it 
is  to  fulfil  a  wish  that  you  expressed  to  me.  I  hope 
that  you  will  not  accuse  me  of  self-love  because  I 

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The   Love   Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

show  to  that  Adèle,  whose  good  opinion  is  every- 
thing to  me,  unfinished  sketches  of  some  poor  Httle 
works  that  I  have  undertaken.  I  wish  you  could 
know  how  heartily  I  desire  that  you  should  tell  me 
frankly  your  opinion  of  them,  though  I  tremble  in 
advance  as  to  what  you  may  say. 

I  was  very  happy  last  Thursday  at  this  same  hour. 
You  were  near,  very  near  me.  I  could  feel  your  every 
movement;  I  could  almost  breathe  your  breath.  I 
gathered  up  your  words — all  were  for  me.  When 
will  my  whole  life  be  like  that?  The  moments  of 
happiness  passed  beside  you  are  moments  of  intense 
happiness,  pure  and  deep-felt,  I  can  assure  you.  As 
soon  as  they  have  vanished  I  regret  them  as  if  they 
were  never  to  reappear,  and  when  I  look  forward  to 
their  return,  I  long  for  them  as  if  I  had  never  before 
known  them.  I  feel,  when  I  am  with  you,  a  joy 
always  immeasurably  great,  and  always  new.  Such 
are  the  signs  of  an  imperishable  love.  Your  lightest 
word  upsets  me;  sometimes  it  pains,  sometimes  it 
enchants  me. 

Adèle,  those  minds  are  very  weak  and  those  hearts 
very  contracted  that  can  doubt  the  eternity  of  love. 
In  the  depths  of  the  soul  that  truly  loves  is  a  voice 
which  tells  it  it  will  always  love,  for,  indeed,  love 
is  the  life  of  the  soul.  To  any  one  who  really  thinks 
about  it,  it  becomes  a  strong  proof  of  our  immaterial 
immortality.  Do  not  look  on  these,  dear  love,  as 
mere  vain  words.  They  are  great  truths,  which  lie 
beyond  human  life,  that  I  am  now  laying  before  you  ; 
and  in  your  heart,  as  well  as  in  mine,  there  should  be 
something  that  responds  to  them.     These  are  vast 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

and  magnificent  hopes  which  make  marriage  an  an- 
ticipation of  heaven.  For  my  part,  when  I  think 
that  you  have  been  given  to  me,  I  am  reduced  to 
silence,  for  there  are  no  words  in  human  speech  that 
can  adequately  return  thanks  for  such  a  blessing. 

Saturday,  March  2d. 

You  said  to  me  the  other  day  something  that  struck 
me  forcibly.  That  is  why  I  must  speak  of  it  to  you. 
You  told  me  that  you  were  not  sure  that  I  ivas  ahvays 
good  {que  je  fusse  sage).  I  begin  by  telling  you  that, 
if  I  thought  you  had  been  speaking  seriously,  I 
should  make  you  no  answer.  It  is  because  I  feel 
sure  that  these  words  were  said  in  joke  that  I  give 
you  here  some  explanation  of  the  way  I  view  the  sub- 
ject. I  should  consider  as  only  an  ordinary  woman 
(that  is  to  say,  a  woman  of  small  account)  one  who 
could  marry  a  man  without  being  morally  certain, 
from  what  she  knew  of  his  character  and  principles, 
that  not  onl}^  he  was  "  good,"  but,  furthermore  (and 
I  employ  the  word  in  its  full  meaning),  that  he  was 
chaste.  I  mean,  as  much  a  virgin  as  herself.  My 
opinion  on  that  subject  admits  only  one  exception. 
It  is  that  of  a  young  man  who,  having  once  com- 
mitted a  fault,  acknowledges  it,  with  profound  re- 
pentance, and  with  deep  scorn  of  himself,  to  the 
woman  he  is  engaged  to  marry.  That  young  man 
would  be  an  odious,  contemptible  traitor  if  he  did  not 
make  that  confession;  and  then  the  girl  might  for- 
give him,  or  not  forgive  him,  without  being  the  less 
estimable  in  my  opinion. 

I  know,  as  I  impart  to  you  these  ideas,  that  they 

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are  not  such  as  are  generally  held  in  this  age  and  by 
this  world.  But  what  matter?  I  have  many  more 
of  the  same  kind,  and  I  am  glad  I  have  them.  I 
think  that  the  most  severe  purity  is  as  much  obliga- 
tory on  a  man  as  on  a  woman.  I  do  not  understand 
how  one  sex  can  repudiate  this  instinct,  which  is  of 
all  others  the  most  sacred,  and  that  separates  man 
from  animals. 

You  have  sometimes  reproached  me,  dear,  with 
being  very  severe  as  to  your  sex.  You  see  I  am  even 
more  so  towards  my  own,  since  I  refuse  it  the  license 
too  generally  granted.  If  I  were  to  tell  you  that  the 
rigorous  observance  of  my  dut}^  in  this  respect  has 
cost  me  nothing,  it  would  be  a  falsehood.  Often  (I 
will  hide  nothing  from  you)  I  have  felt  extraordinary 
emotions  of  youth  and  imagination.  Then  I  was 
weak;  the  holy  lessons  of  my  mother  might  have 
faded  from  my  mind,  but  thoughts  of  you  rose  up, 
and  I  was  saved. 

Last  Thursday  I  spent  my  evening  with  some  other 
men.  They  were  men  of  talent  and  of  genius.  But 
if  I  had  had  no  real  friends  among  them,  their  society 
would  have  wearied  me.  As  we  came  out,  these  gen- 
tlemen, who  live  in  clubs  and  salons,  exclaimed  that 
they  had  never  had  so  agreeable  an  evening.  Then  I 
thought  of  my  beloved  Adèle,  and  said  to  myself  :  "  I 
may  have  no  genius,  I  may  not  have  even  talent,  but 
I  know  more  about  happiness  than  an}^  of  these  men.  " 
The  evening  they  had  found  so  delightful  had  seemed 
to  me  very  wearisome  compared  with  one  of  my  happy 
evenings  with  you.  In  truth,  Adèle,  although  my 
life  has  often  been  very  hard  and  bitter,  I  would  not 

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The   Love   Letters    of  Victor  Hugo 

change  it  with  any  one.  I  should  be  both  sick  and 
dying  if  I  did  not  feel  that  my  sole  happiness  was 
to  be  loved  by  you,  which  is  greater  felicity  than  any 
other  that  human  destiny  could  contain.  When  I 
possess  you,  what  will  anything  else  matter? 

Adèle,  you  promised  me  your  portrait.  Have 
you  forgotten  it?  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  have  to  re- 
mind you  of  it.  Your  portrait,  drawn  by  yourself, 
was  what  you  promised  me.  Do  you  forget  you 
promised  me  that?  Have  you,  indeed,  forgotten, 
Adèle,  one  of  the  greatest  joys  you  could  have  given 
me?  Do  you  have  no  care  for  my  happiness?  I 
will  not  believe  that  until  j' our  answer  reaches  me. 
I  would  rather  think  that  j^ou  have  had  no  time  to  sit 
by  yourself  and  work  at  it,  not  that  3^ou  have  been 
wanting  in  the  wish  to  fulfil  a  promise  so  dear  to 
me,  a  promise  that  should  have  been  sacred  in  your 
eyes.  I  will  wait,  therefore,  and  not  murmur  at  the 
delay. 

Sunday  Morning. 

Yoift  tortured  me  by  setting  me  to  discover  what 
could  have  seemed  to  you  50  extraordinary  in  the  let- 
ter I  wrote  you  last  evening.  I  have  at  last  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  you  allude  to  ideas  concerning 
which  I  agree  with  you,  that  a  j^oung  girl  ought  not 
to  converse  with  a  young  man.  On  the  other  hand, 
I  thought  I  was  your  husband,  and,  consequently, 
that  I  had  certain  privileges  not  given  to  others.  It 
seems  to  me,  besides,  that  there  was  nothing  in  my 
chaste  reflections  concerning  my  secret  soul  which 
should  have  shocked  you.  I  gave  you  a  proof  of  my 
highest  confidence  and  my  most  profound  esteem, 

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by  laying  bare  to  you  the  secrets  of  my  soul  and  of 
my  life — secrets  that  no  woman  but  yourself  has  any 
right  to  know.  What,  then,  has  displeased  you? 
What  could  I  have  said  which  seemed  to  you  unfit 
to  meet  the  ear  of  the  most  pure  and  virginal  of 
women? 

I  was  showing  you  how  great  is  the  power  you  have 
over  me,  since  the  mere  thought  of  you  can  curb  the 
effervescence  of  my  soul.  I  told  j^ou  that  the  man 
who  should  be  so  imprudent  as  to  unite  himself,  sul- 
lied and  impure,  to  a  being  all  purity  and  spotless- 
ness,  would  deserve  contempt  and  indignation,  un- 
less he  had  first  confessed  his  fault  and  incurred  the 
risk  of  her  rejection.  What  could  there  have  been 
in  such  principles  of  severe  virtue  that  could  seem  to 
you  to  call  for  reproof?  Assuredly,  I  was  far  from 
expecting  it.  If  I  were  a  woman,  and  the  man  who 
was  to  be  my  husband  said  to  me  :  "  You  have  served 
me  as  a  rampart  against  the  seductions  of  other 
women  ;  you  are  the  first  woman  I  have  ever  clasped 
in  my  arms,  the  only  one  I  ever  will  press  to  my  bosom  ; 
the  more  I  would  delight  to  draw  you  to  myself, 
the  more  horror  and  disgust  I  should  feel  at  any  in 
like  case  but  you,"  it  seems  to  me,  Adèle,  that  if  I 
were  a  woman,  such  confidence  on  the  part  of  one  I 
loved  would  be  very  far  from  displeasing  to  me.  Can 
it  be  possible  that  you  do  not  love  me? 

Dear  love,  I  should  like  to  say  something  more  to 
you  about  my  conduct  last  evening,  which  you  at- 
tributed to  vanity  and  self-conceit.  This  gave  me 
great  pain,  coming  as  it  did  at  a  moment  when  I 
thought  I  was  acting  in  a  manner  that  was  proud,  esti- 

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The   Love   Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

mable,  and  worthy  of  you.  I  meant  to  write  about 
all  that,  but  I  find  I  have  only  time  to  beg  of  you  not 
to  be  vexed  at  the  grave  tone  of  this  letter,  to  say  to 
yourself  again  and  again  how  much  I  love  you 
even  when  you  are  unjust,  and  with  what  joy  I  now 
see  the  dawn  of  that  life  which  I  shall  pass  with 
you. 

Adieu;  I  adore  you,  I  respect  you,  and  I  embrace 
you  very  tenderly. 

Wednesday  Evening, 
This  morning  I  sent  off  the  letter  which  may  lead 
to  such  important  consequences.*  Let  us  both  think 
seriously  of  them.  Possibly,  my  Adèle,  we  are  on 
the  verge  of  one  of  the  most  important  epochs  in  our 
lives.  Forgive  me  for  writing  our  lives,  and  includ- 
ing you  with  me  in  a  community  of  fate,  when  pos- 
sibly I  may  make  an  end  of  myself,  for  I  should  do 
it  at  once  the  moment  I  found  reason  to  fear  it  might 
not  be  for  your  happiness. 

Now  that  my  letter  has  gone,  Adèle,  now  that  I 
have  done  my  duty  by  obe3âng  one  of  your  wishes, 
I  will  venture  to  tell  you  what  I  have  not  told  you 
before,  for  fear  I  might  seem  to  hesitate  between  my 
devotion  to  your  will  and  a  probable  danger,  even 
though  this  danger  may  involve  the  misery  of  all 
my  life.  I  feel,  indeed,  that  it  was  very  natural  that 
you  should  wish,  at  any  cost,  to  be  relieved  from  the 
uncertainty  in  which  you  live.  I  feel  this  so  much 
that,  two  months  ago,  I  made  an  attempt  to  forestall 

*This  was  the  letter  in  which  Victor  asked  General  Hugo's  con- 
sent to  their  marriage. 

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your  just  impatience  by  suggesting  to  your  parents 
to  give  me  their  formal  authorization  of  our  mar- 
riage, that  I  might  communicate  it  to  my  father, 
going  even  further,  and  asking  his  direct  consent. 
They  thought  otherwise,  and  I  had  to  yield.  When 
this  same  idea  occurred  to  you,  I  thought  it  quite 
natural,  and  even  proper,  upon  your  part.  Therefore, 
I  took  care  not  to  tell  you  that  I  feared  the  result 
would  be  unfavorable,  and  I  did  not  care  to  make  you 
sensible  of  all  its  difficulties. 

Now,  let  us  both  wait  calmly,  with  a  quiet  con- 
science. Have  you  observed  me  —  tell  me  —  to  be 
more  depressed,  less  serene,  since  the  moment  when 
I  possibly  destroyed  with  my  own  hand  all  that  I 
hoped  for?  No,  dear  love;  the  satisfaction  that  I 
take  in  thinking  that  I  have  obeyed  you  rises  su- 
perior to  any  purely  personal  fear.  In  a  few  days 
all  will  have  been  decided,  and  whatever  happens  I 
shall  be  glad  I  did  what  I  have  done,  since  you 
will  have  been  relieved  from  the  uncertainty  you 
find  so  painful. 

If  what  I  think  I  can  foresee  should  happen,  I 
shall  have  the  consolation  of  knowing  that  I  had 
expected  it  beforehand,  and  had  resigned  myself  to 
the  worst,  without  speaking  to  you  of  what  I  could 
not  but  apprehend,  that  I  might  give  you  another 
proof  of  my  love  and  my  submission. 

If  you  continue  to  remember  me  a  little  while, 
perhaps  it  will  not  be  with  an  idea  that  your  Victor 
"never  loved  you  much,"  as  you  sometimes  tell  him 
reproachfully.  All  my  ambition,  my  beloved  Adèle, 
is  to  prove  to  you  my  devotion.     It  is  to  that  I  conse- 

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The   Love   Letters   of  Victor   Hugo 

crate  my  whole  life,  whether  it  is  to  last  for  sixty 
years,  or  only  three  months  longer, 

I  therefore  implore  you  not  to  be  anxious.  Things 
will  now  take  their  natural  course.  My  letter  will  give 
them  a  sudden  impulse  over  which  I  shall  have  lost 
control.  I  am  no  more  master  of  the  event  than  your- 
self. Among  so  many  chances  there  must  be  one 
that  would  make  us  happy,  I  ought  only  to  have 
spoken  to  j^ou  of  that  one.  All  the  grief  must  be 
for  me.  It  would  have  been  too  bad  to  warn  you. 
You  wished  me  to  write.  That  was  the  only  thing 
that  I  considered,  and  I  have  no  merit  in  having 
done  what  was  only  my  duty.  And  now,  if  all  my 
happy  dreams  must  pass  away,  I  shall  only  have 
to  follow  them  ;  but  for  you  there  will  always  be  one 
great  reality,  which  is,  that  you  will  have  inspired  a 
true,  deep,  and  devoted  love. 

Now,  my  beloved  Adèle,  I  speak  of  all  this  firmly 
and  seriously,  because  the  hour  may  be  at  hand 
when  I  have  to  confirm  by  actions  what  possibly 
you  have  only  hitherto  considered  as  vain  words. 
It  may  be  mj^  life's  last  joy. 

And  3'et  things,  possibly,  may  turn  out  well.  It 
would  not  be  the  first  time  since  I  have  loved  you 
that  my  happiness  seemed  beyond  hope.  To  have 
all  turn  out  well  is  not  probable,  but  it  is  not  im- 
possible. Dearest — my  Adèle,  forgive  me  for  dread- 
ing misfortune  after  I  had  told  you  I  was  resigned. 
It  is  because  my  hopes  were  so  precious  and  so  sweet. 
We  must  wait. 

Adieu  till  to-morrow,  I  will  write  to  you.  I  love 
you  better  than  you  can  ever  imagine. 

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Saturday,  March  gth,  4.30  p.m. 

Just  fancy,  dear,  that  ever  since  early  this  morn- 
ing I  have  not  had  one  moment's  Hberty.  I  wanted 
to  pass  the  whole  day  at  work,  and  in  writing  to 
you,  and  instead  I  have  been  obliged  to  endure  vis- 
itors. Pity  me,  and  do  not  blame  me.  I  had  so 
many  things  to  say  to  you;  I  wanted  to  tell  you  all 
about  this  week,  whose  beginning  was  taken  up  by 
that  letter,  and  all  the  worries  of  the  bal  du  poète. 
How  could  you  for  an  instant  doubt,  let  me  say  it,  en 
passant,  that  I  should  not  go  there,  since  you  did 
not  wish  me  to?  What  is  it  to  me  whether  I  stand 
well  or  ill  with  all  those  people?  Only  you  told  me 
that  I  did  not  feel  as  you  do — and  those  words  pained 
me  very  much,  because  you  have  been  to  such  gayeties 
often  when  I  could  not  be  there  (and  quite  recently 
to  a  party  about  which  you  wished  to  give  me  ex- 
planations). You  feel  now  what  I  have  often  felt, 
and  I  thank  you.  I  am  ver}^  glad  of  it.  Adieu, 
my  Adèle;  if  there  is  anything  sad  in  the  letter  I 
wrote  you  yesterday,  remember  there  is  nothing  cold 
in  it.  Far  from  that;  I  never  loved  you  more  than 
I  do  now,  when  the  inevitable  hour  for  my  sacrifice 
is  perhaps  drawing  near.  Adieu,  adieu,  my  adored 
Adèle.  I  embrace  3'ou,  and  am  to  the  last  moment 
your  faithful  husband. 

Do  not  be  too  much  afraid.     Perhaps  all  may  turn 

out  happily. 

Sunday,  March  loth,  10.30  a.m. 

Since  I  may  not  see  you,  my  gentle,  generous  Adèle, 
at  least  I  may  write  to  you.  My  heart  is  filled  with 
gratitude  to  you,  and  with  a  feeling  I  do  not  like  to 

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enlarge  upon  (for  fear  I  may  distress  you),  against 
those  who  made  you  cry.  While  I  was  standing  near 
you,  to  all  appearance  cold  and  calm,  I  was  boiling 
over,  my  Adèle,  with  impatience  and  indignation — 
let  me  say  the  word.  To  see  you  worried  in  that  way, 
without  any  reason,  you,  the  most  tender,  the  very 
best  of  daughters — no,  I  cannot  tell  how  I  controlled 
myself.  I  wanted  to  lift  up  my  voice,  to  protect  you, 
to  defend  you,  with  all  my  strength,  and  in  all  my 
anger.  Oh  !  how  that  would  have  relieved  me  !  I 
should  not  now  be  sitting  here  oppressed  with  tears 
which,  when  you  wept,  I  could  not  shed,  and  with  all 
the  words  I  could  not  say  on  your  behalf  which  fell 
back  on  my  own  heart,  and  seemed  to  stifle  me.  Adèle, 
though  your  mother  is  kind,  she  does  not  see  things 
from  the  higher  stand-point  at  which  you  see  them. 
In  that  she  resembles  other  women;  and  for  that 
reason  I  always  heartily  forgive  her,  except  when 
her  commonplace  view  of  things  leads  her,  as  it  did 
to-day,  to  torture  my  Adèle — my  noble,  my  excellent, 
my  beloved  Adèle  ! — my  Adèle,  without  whom  there 
is  no  happiness  for  me  in  life,  and  even,  I  may  say, 
no  virtue;  for  I  am  attached  to  you,  my  angel,  by 
every  tie  that  can  bind  you  to  my  soul,  and  in  me  all 
that  aims  at  virtue,  all  that  makes  for  happiness,  is 
associated  with  my  Adèle — mon  Adèle  adorée  !  And 
that  is  why  the  ties  which  bind  me  to  you  on  earth 
will  never  break  until  all  other  ties  to  life  are  severed, 
and  then  my  freed  soul  will  be  once  more  and  more 
completely  thine  ! 

How  sweet  it  would  have  been  to  me  to  take  up 
your  defence,  to  attack  those  who  were  distressing 

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you  to-day!  But  I  dared  not  lift  my  head  to  take 
your  part,  any  more  than  I  dared  fall  at  your  feet 
to  console  you.  I  should  only  have  increased  your 
mother's  anger,  and  have  made  her  turn  on  you 
reproaches  which,  possibly,  she  hesitated  to  heap  on 
me.  And  yet,  dear  love,  I  would  have  sacrificed 
my  pride  most  joyfully,  if  I  could  thereby  have  re- 
lieved you  from  what  you  were  suffering.  I  would 
willingly  have  drawn  down  upon  myself  your  moth- 
er's anger  if  I  could  have  diverted  it  from  you.  But 
the  fear  of  doing  harm  if  I  should  interfere  restrained 
me.  At  least,  dear  love,  if  my  deep  gratitude  and 
my  entire  approval  can  be  any  comfort  to  you,  you 
have  them  in  full  measure. 

Adieu  !  I  am  going  out,  that  from  a  distance  I  may 
see  you  in  church.  You  will  not  see  me,  but  I  shall 
be  there.  I  have  done  the  same  thing  very  often. 
Adieu  till  I  come  back;  then,  Adèle,  I  will  go  on.  I 
feel  less  sad  now  that  I  think  I  am  going  to  see  you. 

Half-past  two. 

Your  little  brother  has  just  been  here  insisting  that 
I  must  take  him  to  the  exhibition  of  pictures,  but  I 
am  like  you.  I  shall  stay  at  home.  My  Adèle,  you 
no  doubt  are  tired  and  out  of  spirits  at  this  moment  ; 
it  always  pains  me  to  think  that  you  are  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  another  man.  But  if  I  had  known  it  would 
bring  so  much  trouble  upon  you,  I  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  bear  the  pain,  great  as  it  is  to  me.  If  I 
could  only  think  you  feel  the  same  repugnance  to 
taking  the  arm  of  another  man  as  I  do  to  giving 
mine  to  any  other  woman,  I  could  regret  nothing; 

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but,  Adèle,  however  much  I  may  think  of  your  ten- 
derness, when  I  remember  all  the  proofs  of  it  you 
deign  to  give  me  day  after  daj^  can  I  ever  believe 
that  your  feeling  for  me  equals  mine  for  you  ?  Truly, 
when  I  look  into  myself,  I  dare  not  indulge  in  such 
presumption  ! 

The  painful  scene  this  morning  reminded  me,  dear, 
of  some  of  the  disputes  I  had  last  winter  with  my 
mother  about  things  of  the  same  kind.  But  my 
noble  mother  knew  how  to  stop  at  the  point  when 
my  resistance  was  growing  painful  to  me. 

My  Adèle,  forgive  me  for  having  spoken  perhaps 
a  little  harshly  of  your  mother  in  this  letter.  It  was 
impossible  for  me  to  see  you  mistreated  in  that  way 
and  to  keep  perfectly  cool;  the  fear  of  distressing 
you  ought  perhaps  to  have  stopped  me,  but  I  did  not 
think  of  that  at  the  first  moment.     Forgive  me. 

Our  conversation  yesterday  evening  moved  me 
greatly,  and  when  I  returned  home  your  letter,  so 
touching  and  so  tender,  deepened  the  emotion,  until 
at  last  I  fell  asleep  dreaming  of  you. 

And  at  this  very  moment,  my  dear — my  too  kind 
Adèle  ! — our  happiness  or  our  unhappiness  is  being 
decided  for  us  far  away.  Yes,  I  count  upon  your  ten- 
derness. I  see,  and  I  admire,  your  courage.  Your 
devotion  goes  to  my  heart,  but,  I  implore  j^ou,  do  not 
lose  3^our  rest  because  of  me.  In  a  few  daj^s  perhaps 
I  shall  be  a  poor  outcast,  whom  others  will  exhort 
you  to  forget,  and  whom  you  should  forget,  it  seems 
to  me,  now  that  such  forgetfulness  might  secure  your 
happiness.  I  would  say  the  same  thing  to  j^ou  my- 
self, but  then  those  words  would  be  the  last  my  lips 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

pronounced.  And  yet,  my  adored  Adèle,  I  shall 
have  been  very  happy,  in  spite  of  my  misfortunes — 
happy  in  having  inspired  a  devotion  like  that  you 
promised  me  yesterday.  Alas!  what  dreams  of  life- 
long happiness  must  I  not  part  with  !  I  should  have 
passed  my  life  in  loving  you.  To  love  you  will  have 
been  the  story  of  my  life.  I  certainly  ought  not  to 
complain  of  my  fate. 

Adieu,  adieu,  my  beloved  Adèle  !  Receive  as  many 
kisses  from  j'^our  husband  as  you  have  shed  tears 
for  him.     Je  t'embrasse  comme  je  t'aime! 

Monday,  March  nth. 

AU  my  ideas  are  confused,  and  my  brain  is  in  dis- 
order. Last  evening  the  devotion,  the  tender  words 
of  my  beloved  Adèle,  threw  me  into  a  sweet,  sad 
train  of  thought,  whose  vague  emotions  I  would 
gladly  set  down  upon  this  paper,  that  I  might  show 
you  what  is  my  state  when  I  am  away  from  you. 

Your  image  could  bring  me  nothing  but  joy,  if  it 
did  not  renew  remembrances  of  the  past  and  bring 
me  sad  presentiments  as  to  our  future. 

I  have  just  taken  out  your  lock  of  hair,  for  in  the 
great  and  awful  doubt  which  has  taken  possession 
of  me  in  these  last  three  days  I  needed  something 
real,  something  which  had  been  part  of  yourself,  a 
palpable  pledge  of  that  angelic  love  in  which  you 
encourage  me  to  believe  still.  For  one  moment  I 
covered  that  dear  lock  of  hair  with  kisses.  It  seemed 
to  me,  as  I  pressed  it  to  my  lips,  that  you  were  less 
absent.  It  seemed,  too,  as  if  a  mysterious  commu- 
nication were  established  between  us,  that  this  dear 

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hair  had  become  a  hnk  between  two  separated  souls. 
Do  not  smile,  Adèle,  at  the  delirium  which  possessed 
me.  Alas!  so  few  hours  of  my  life,  my  love,  have 
been  passed  with  you  that  sometimes  I  am  con- 
strained to  try,  by  kissing  your  hair,  or  by  reading 
your  letters,  if  I  cannot  find  some  way  to  appease 
that  immense  need  of  3^our  presence  which  seems  as 
if  it  would  consume  me.  It  was  bj^  such  artificial 
means  that  I  contrived  to  exist  during  our  long 
separation,  but  then  hope  every  day,  aurora -like, 
dawned  before  my  ej^es. 

Hope!  In  a  week — in  three  daj^s — who  knows  if 
any  vestige  of  hope  will  remain?  Why  does  destiny 
change,  when  the  heart  cannot  change? 

However,  whatever  fate  may  have  in  store  for  me, 
Adèle,  I  am  prepared  to  meet  it.  I  will  remember 
that  you  have  deigned  to  love  me,  and  what  could  I 
not  meet  bravely,  strengthened  by  that  thought? 
There  is  always  one  door  open  by  which  one  can 
escape  misfortune,  and  the  day  when  my  last  hope 
is  taken  away  I  shall  pass  through  it.  I  shall  go 
where  I  shall  commence  another  life,  and  however 
terrible  it  may  be,  I  cannot  think  it  will  be  worse  than 
this  one  without  you. 

Adieu  for  to-day.     Oh!  I  am  athirst  to  see  you! 

At  last  the  answer  of  General  Hugo  arrived  !  He  gave 
his  consent!  He  was  even  glad  to  give  it,  for  he  himself 
had  to  ask  his  son's  forgiveness  for  a  very  serious  thing. 
Three  weeks  after  his  wife's  death  ha  had  married  the 
person  for  whose  sake  he  had  left  his  family,  and  he  had 
not  told  his  children  what  he  had  done.  Yet,  even 
under  such  a  cloud,  sunshine  dawned  on  Victor  at  the 
very  moment  when  he  least  expected  it. 

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As  for  Adèle,  in  a  letter  which  has,  unfortunately, 
been  destroyed,  she  had  given  Victor  the  most  con- 
vincing proof  she  loved  him  that  could  have  been  given 
by  a  girl  so  timid  and  so  pure.  She  believed — nay,  she 
knew  —  that  if  all  hope  were  lost,  if  his  father's  con- 
sent to  their  marriage  was  decidedly  withheld,  Victor 
would  be  quite  certain  to  take  some  fatal  resolution,  and 
she  offered  to  give  herself  into  his  care,  and  to  leave  her 
home.  Then,  sooner  or  later,  their  friends  would  be 
forced  to  see  them  married.  The  reply  of  Victor's 
father  rendered  so  great  a  sacrifice  on  her  part  unnec- 
essary. 

Victor  was  now  officially  recognized  as  the  future  hus- 
band of  Adèle!  And  at  his  earnest  entreaty,  and  in 
order  that  the  two  young  people  might  not  be  separated, 
he  was  invited  to  spend  the  summer  in  the  country  as 
one  of  the  family  party  of  Mme.  Foucher.  An  apart- 
ment was  hired  at  Gentilly  in  a  house  which  had  a  gar- 
den, at  the  end  of  which  was  a  small  detached  house, 
where  Victor  established  himself,  but  he  was  to  take  his 
meals  in  the  company  of  her  he  loved  ;  he  could  see  her 
every  day,  and  at  any  moment.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  they 
continued  to  write  to  each  other!  It  might  have  been 
expected  that  interest  would  have  lessened  in  their  let- 
ters, but,  on  the  contrary,  happiness,  and  the  prospect 
of  more  happiness,  seemed  to  inspire  the  poet-lover  with 
his  most  eloquent  bursts  of  affection — we  might  almost 
call  them  hymns  of  joy — very  ardent,  and  very  beautiful. 

There  was  nothing  now  to  be  waited  for,  before  fixing 
a  day  for  the  marriage,  except  the  bestowal  of  that  mis- 
erable royal  pension  to  which  they  looked  forward.  It 
was  very  slow  in  coming!  This,  possibly,  was  some- 
what Victor's  fault,  for  he  could  not  bear  to  solicit 
favors  and  "run  after  ministers."  We  may  also  blame 
the  stupid  formalities  and  slow  proceedings  of  the 
"  Bureaux  "  for  causing  these  young,  ardent  lovers  to 
languish  in  uncertainty.  Ever  since  1819  the  odes  and 
articles  written  by  the  young  poet  in  the  interest  of 
monarchy — the  only  lasting  and  sincere  testimony  we 
have  to  the  fictitious  enthusiasm  of  France  after  the 
return  of  the  Bourbons — did  battle  for  the  cause  of  the 
Restoration,  and  it  was  not  until  three  years  later,  in 
September,  1822,  that  he  secured  the  poor  reward  of  a 

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pension  of  twelve  hundred  francs,  which  afterwards  was 
reduced  to  one  thousand  I 

Wednesday,  March  12th,  3.30  p.m. 

Adèle,  my  Adèle,  I  am  wild  with  joy.  To  you  my 
emotion  must  be  first  poured  out.  I  had  passed  a 
week  preparing  myself  to  encounter  a  great  misfort- 
une, and  happiness  arrived  instead  !  It  has  but  one 
cloud. 

Adieu  for  a  few  hours.  I  will  bring  you  this  letter 
myself  this  evening,  my  beloved  and  too  generous 
Adèle. 

Friday  Evening,  March  isth. 

After  the  two  delightful  evenings  spent  yesterday 
and  the  day  before,  I  shall  certainl}^  not  go  out  to- 
night, but  will  sit  here  at  home  and  write  to  j^ou.  Be- 
sides, my  Adèle,  m\^  adorable  and  adored  Adèle, 
what  have  I  not  to  tell  you?  Oh,  God!  for  two  days 
I  have  been  asking  myself  everj^  moment  if  such  hap- 
piness is  not  a  dream.  It  seems  to  me  that  what  I 
feel  is  not  of  earth.  I  cannot  yet  comprehend  this 
cloudless  heaven. 

You  do  not  3^et  know,  Adèle,  to  what  I  had  resigned 
m3^self.  Alas!  do  I  know  it  myself?  Because  I 
was  weak,  I  fancied  I  was  calm  ;  because  I  was  pre- 
paring myself  for  all  the  mad  follies  of  despair,  I 
thought  I  was  courageous  and  resigned.  Ah!  let 
me  cast  m3'self  humbly  at  j^our  feet,  j^ou  who  are  so 
grand,  so  tender,  and  so  strong  !  I  had  been  think- 
ing that  the  utmost  limit  of  my  devotion  could  only 
be  the  sacrifice  of  mj"  life,  but  you,  mj^  generous  love, 
were  ready  to  sacrifice  for  me  the  repose  of  3'ours  ! 

Adèle,  to  what  follies,  what  delirium,  did  not  your 

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Victor  give  way  during  these  everlasting  eight  days  ! 
Sometimes  I  was  ready  to  accept  the  offer  of  your  ad- 
mirable love;  I  thought  that  if  pushed  to  the  last 
extremity  by  the  letter  from  my  father,  I  might  real- 
ize a  little  money,  and  then  carry  you  away — you, 
my  betrothed,  my  companion,  my  wife — away  from 
all  those  who  might  want  to  disunite  us;  I  thought 
we  would  cross  France,  I  being  nominally  your  hus- 
band, and  go  into  some  other  country  which  would 
give  us  our  rights.  By  day  we  would  travel  in  the 
same  carriage,  at  night  we  would  sleep  under  the 
same  roof.  But  do  not  think,  my  noble  Adèle,  that 
I  would  have  taken  advantage  of  so  much  happiness. 
Is  it  not  true  that  you  would  never  have  done  me  the 
dishonor  of  thinking  so?  You  would  have  been  the 
object  most  worthy  of  respect,  the  being  most  respect- 
ed, by  your  Victor  ;  you  might  on  the  journey  have 
even  slept  in  the  same  chamber  without  fearing  that 
he  would  have  alarmed  you  bj^  a  touch,  or  have  even 
looked  at  j^ou.  Only  I  should  have  slept,  or  watched 
wakef ully  in  a  chair,  or  lying  on  the  floor  beside  your 
bed,  the  guardian  of  your  repose,  the  protector  of 
your  slumbers.  The  right  to  defend  and  to  watch 
over  you  would  have  been  the  only  one  of  a  hus- 
band's rights  that  your  slave  would  have  aspired  to, 
until  a  priest  had  given  him  all  the  others. 

Adèle,  when  I  gave  myself  up  to  this  delightful 
dream  in  the  midst  of  my  unhappiness,  I  forgot  every- 
thing else.  .  .  .  And  then  came  my  awakening; 
and  then  remorse  for  having  for  one  moment  conceived 
of  such  things.  I  thought  of  your  parents,  of  your 
own  peace  of  mind,  and  of  your  position,  and  I  re- 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

proached  myself  for  having  shown  you  so  httle  de- 
votion as  to  have  been  so  wilHng  to  accept  so  much, 
for  having  been  so  ungenerous  as  to  consent  to  so 
much  generosit}^,  when  my  own  dream  had  ahvays 
been  how  to  increase  your  happiness,  even  if  I  sacri- 
ficed m}^  own!  Then  I  cursed  mj'self — I  called  my- 
self the  evil  genius  of  your  life,  I  remembered  all  the 
sufferings  I  had  brought  upon  you,  and  I  took  that 
mad  resolution  that  yesterday  cost  you  those  tears, 
tears  I  was  inexcusable  for  having  made  you  shed, 
and  I  went  in  search  of  a  friend  unhapp^^  like  nty- 
self,  who,  like  me,  had  lost  his  last  hope  of  happiness, 
and  had  nothing  more  to  do  with  life  but  to  endure 
its  last  pangs. 

Adèle,  oh,  do  not  hate  me,  do  not  despise  me  for 
having  been  so  weak  and  abject  when  3^ou  were  so 
strong  and  so  sublime.  Think  of  my  bereavements, 
of  my  loneliness,  of  what  I  expected  from  my  father; 
think  that  for  a  week  I  had  looked  forward  to  losing 
3'ou,  and  do  not  be  astonished  at  the  extravagance 
of  my  despair.  You — a  young  girl — were  admira- 
ble. And,  indeed,  I  feel  as  if  it  would  be  flattering 
an  angel  to  compare  such  a  being  to  you.  You  have 
been  privileged  to  receive  every  gift  from  nature, 
you  have  both  fortitude  and  tears.  Oh,  Adèle,  do  not 
mistake  these  words  for  blind  enthusiasm — enthu- 
siasm for  you  has  lasted  all  m}^  life,  and  increases 
day  by  day.  M}^  whole  soul  is  3'ours.  If  mj'  entire 
existence  had  not  been  yours,  the  harmony  of  my 
being  would  have  been  lost,  and  I  must  have  died — 
died  inevitabl3^ 

These  were  my  meditations,  Adèle,  when  the  let- 

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ter  that  was  to  bring  me  hope  or  else  despair  ar- 
rived. If  you  love  me,  you  know  what  must  have 
been  my  joy.  What  I  know  you  may  have  felt  I 
will  not  describe. 

My  Adèle,  why  is  there  no  word  for  this  but  joy? 
Is  it  because  there  is  no  power  in  human  speech  to 
express  such  happiness? 

The  sudden  bound  from  mournful  resignation  to 
infinite  felicity  seemed  to  upset  me.  Even  now  I 
am  still  beside  myself,  and  sometimes  I  tremble  lest 
I  should  suddenly  awaken  from  this  dream  divine. 

Oh,  now  you  are  mine  !  At  last  you  are  mine  ! 
Soon — in  a  few  months,  perhaps,  my  angel  will  sleep 
in  my  arms,  will  awaken  in  my  arms,  will  live  there. 
All  your  thoughts  at  all  moments,  all  your  looks, 
will  be  for  me;  all  my  thoughts,  all  my  moments, 
all  my  looks,  will  be  for  you!     My  Adèle! 

Ah!  I  can  at  last  do  something  to  assist  my  own 
career!  With  so  much  hope,  what  courage  I  shall 
have  to  work!  With  courage,  what  success  may 
I  not  obtain!  What  a  burden  has  been  lifted  from 
my  heart  !  What  ! — was  it  only  the  day  before  yester- 
day! It  seems  to  me  a  long  time  since  happiness 
was  mine.  I  have  felt  so  many  things  these  last 
two  days. 

And  your  letter  last  Wednesday  evening.  How 
can  I  thank  you  for  it,  my  Adèle?  I  did  not  think 
that  at  such  a  moment  anything  could  have  increased 
my  happiness,  but  your  letter  made  me  feel  that 
there  can  be  no  bounds  to  love  and  joy  in  the  human 
breast.  What  a  noble,  tender,  and  devoted  wife  is 
destined  for  me  !     How  can  I  ever  deserve  her?  Adèle, 

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I  am  as  nothing  beside  you.  The  more  I  Hf t  my  head 
when  I  compare  myself  with  other  men,  the  more  I 
sink  in  my  own  sight  when  I  compare  myself  with 
you. 

And  now  you  will  belong  to  me!  Now  I  am  called 
on  earth  to  enjoy  celestial  felicity!  I  see  you  as  my 
young  wife,  then  a  young  mother,  but  always  the 
same,  always  my  Adèle,  as  tender,  as  adored  in  the 
chastity  of  married  life  as  in  the  virgin  days  of  your 
first  love.  Dear  love,  answer  me — tell  me  if  you  can 
conceive  the  happiness  of  love  immortal  in  an  eter- 
nal union!     And  that  will  be  ours  some  day. 

This  morning  I  answered  my  father's  letter.  There 
were  two  things  in  it  which  gave  me  pain.  He  told 
me  he  had  formed  new  ties.  My  mother  might  have 
read  what  I  wrote  to  him  this  morning.  My  excite- 
ment did  not  make  me  altogether  forget  what  I  owed 
to  her  memory.  You  cannot  blame  me,  my  noble 
love.  Besides,  I  hope  we  may  yet  be  reconciled.  I 
am  his  son,  and  I  am  your  husband.  All  my  duty 
is  comprised  in  those  two  relationships. 

I  do  not  forget  that  you  told  me  that  an  account 
of  how  I  had  passed  this  week  would  be  interesting 
to  you.  I  own  that  up  to  Wednesday  I  tried  in  vain 
to  work.  The  time  was  passed  in  struggling  with 
my  own  emotions.  I  was  full  of  thoughts  of  her 
whom  I  expected  to  lose,  and  all  my  ideas  centred 
upon  that  loss.  Yesterday  I  was  able  to  work.  To- 
day I  have  spent  in  running  from  one  ministerial 
bureau  to  another,  a  task  I  shall  have  to  resume  to- 
morrow, after  having  given  all  my  morning  to  work. 
In  the  evening  I  shall  be  very  happy. 

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My  Adèle,  no  obstacle  will  now  discourage  me, 
either  in  my  writing  or  in  my  attempt  to  gain  a  pen- 
sion, for  every  step  I  take  to  attain  success  in  both 
will  bring  me  nearer  to  you.  How  could  anything 
now  seem  painful  to  me?  Do  not  think  so  ill  of  me 
as  to  believe  that,  I  implore  you.  What  is  a  little 
toil,  if  it  conquers  so  much  happiness?  Have  I  not 
a  thousand  times  implored  heaven  to  let  me  purchase 
it  at  the  price  of  my  blood?  Oh!  how  happy  I  am; 
how  happy  I  am  going  to  be  ! 

Adieu,  my  angel,  my  beloved  Adèle  !  Adieu  !  I 
will  kiss  your  hair  and  go  to  bed.  Still  I  am  far  from 
you,  but  I  can  dream  of  you.  Soon  perhaps  you 
will  be  at  my  side.  Adieu;  pardon  the  delirium  of 
your  husband  who  embraces  you,  and  who  adores 
you,  both  for  this  life  and  another. 

Your  picture? 

Thursday,  March  21st,  9.30  p.m. 

If  you  knew  how  I  had  passed  my  evening  up  to 
now,  I  think  you  might  laugh  at  me.  But  no — 
for  I  have  known  that  you  are  worthy  to  be  loved 
even  thus.  While  you  are  thinking  of  other  things 
this  evening  I  am  going  to  write  to  you,  and  certainly, 
whatever  happiness  you  may  find  in  what  I  write, 
my  happiness  in  writing  will  be  greater  still. 

I  will  not  speak  to  you,  Adèle,  of  the  party;  you 
were  there;  that  is  enough.  Be  sure,  dear  love,  you 
will  have  no  cause  to  fear  that  tyranny  about  which 
you  spoke  to-day;  never  will  I  deprive  you  of  an 
amusement  on  the  pretext  that  I  should  not  be  there. 
I  could  not  even  think  of  such  a  thing,  for  if  the  day 
ever  came  when  you  found  pleasure  outside  our 

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happy  life,  you  would  have  ceased  to  love  me  ;  and 
what  more  could  I  say?  As  for  me,  when  I  stay 
away  from  a  ball  or  a  fête,  where  I  know  that  I  should 
not  meet  you,  there  is  no  merit  in  my  absence.  It 
is  no  sacrifice;  it  is  just  its  opposite.  I  could  not 
bear  to  go  to  a  scene  of  jo}''  where  my  own  only  joy 
would  not  be  present,  and  where  I  should  only  weary 
for  your  presence  ;  so  by  staying  at  home  I  am  jdeld- 
ing  to  a  selfishness  which  is  simply  the  outcome  of 
mj^  love  for  you.  I  do  not  care  to  say  more  about 
such  a  trifle. 

However,  Adèle,  if  you  knew  that  part  of  my  life 
which  is  exterior  and  public,  and  of  which  you  have 
at  present  only  an  imperfect  idea,  you  might  think 
that  I  sacrifice  some  pleasures  for  you.  But  as  I 
really  enjoy  only  one  pleasure  in  this  world,  all  others, 
whatever  they  may  be,  are  nothing  to  me.  Once 
only,  and  that  a  few  days  since,  I  accepted  an  invita- 
tion to  a  ball.  I  told  you  why  I  accepted  it.  What- 
ever my  reasons  might  have  been,  it  was  my  duty  to 
tell  you  of  them.  You  only  said,  what  was  very 
true,  that  you  would  not  be  there.  It  was  for  that 
reason  I  spoke  to  you  about  it.  Though  you  have 
not  hitherto  always  thought  the  same,  you  deigned 
to  tell  me  that  it  would  have  been  morally  impossible 
for  you  to  enjoy  a  fête  where  I  should  not  be,  too. 
These  words  filled  me  with  joj^  and  settled  my  reso- 
lution about  m3^  engagement.  I  pretended  I  was 
suddenly  taken  ill.  I  did  more  ;  I  feigned  this  even- 
ing that  I  was  very  sick.  Nothing  could  have  with- 
held me  from  giving  this  proof  of  my  obedience, 
and  saving  myself  at  the  same  time  from  a  weari- 

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some  evening.     You  see,  my  dear  love,  that  when  I 

will  a  thing,  I  carry  it  out  ;  and  I  know  how  to  find 

reasons  for  doing  as  I  think  best,  which  cannot  be 

set  aside. 

Adieu  for  to-night,  my  dear,  my  dearest  Adèle. 

You  will  get  home  late  and  tired.     May  you  have 

given  a  thought  to  me  at  your  ball,  and  now  sleep 

well.     Adieu. 

Friday,  March  zid. 

Dear  friend,  let  nothing  I  have  written  above  pain 
you.  I  do  not  think  that  anything  I  said,  without 
any  thought  of  unkindness,  can  be  unkindly  inter- 
preted, but  I  wish  to  prevent  you  from  feeling  an- 
noyed, even  if  such  a  feeling  appears  improbable. 

Alas!  how  could  I  dare  utter  a  complaint  against 
you,  my  Adèle,  you  who  are  so  good,  so  tender,  so 
generous,  so  noble,  so  entirely  devoted  and  self-sac- 
rificing? To  all  the  other  virtues  of  your  highly 
endowed  nature  add  all  the  noble  and  beautiful  ones 
that  have  their  source  in  love.  How  can  it  happen, 
dear  and  beloved  Adèle,  that  a  being  such  as  you 
are  should  be,  so  singularly,  surrounded  by  narrow 
minds  and  cold  hearts?  It  is  not  on  my  own  ac- 
count that  this  environment  afïïicts  me.  What  can 
it  signify  what  such  people  think  of  me?  It  is  for 
you,  who  are  obliged  to  live  among  them  and  to 
have  them  treat  j^ou  like  an  equal,  when  you  are  so 
immeasurably  their  superior.  I  suffer  for  you, 
my  noble  love,  who  are  being  incessantly  scruti- 
nized by  their  peering  eyes,  judged  by  their  petty 
wisdom,  tormented  by  their  paltry  tyranny.  In- 
deed,  you  seem  to  me  like  a  dove  among  puddle- 

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ducks,  and  I  should  laugh  at  such  an  unnatural 
combination  did  it  not  concern  you.  There  are 
many  types  of  animals  among  mankind. 

Dearest,  it  would  be  useless  to  tell  you  how  much 
the  picture  that  you  draw  for  me  of  our  happiness  at 
Gentilly  has  touched  and  delighted  me,  although  it 
had  already  a  pace  in  my  expectation  and  in  my 
hopes.  You  must  know,  my  dearest  Adèle,  that  my 
imagination  has  not  been  less  ready  than  your  own 
to  depict  this  felicity. 

So  great,  indeed,  does  it  appear  to  me,  inured  as  I 
have  become  to  constant  suffering,  that  I  look  sus- 
piciously, and  almost  with  dread,  into  a  future  when 
I  shall  be  free  to  enjoy  without  reservation.  Young 
as  I  am,  grief  is  for  me  an  old  acquaintance,  and  one 
whom  I  could  not  now  renounce  without  cruelty.  I 
have  become  so  accustomed  to  painful  resignations! 
Do  not  let  us  speak  of  such  subjects  any  more.  When 
the  sky  above  is  so  clear  and  so  beautiful,  why  should 
we  ourselves  create  storms?  The  past  is  the  past. 
Do  not  let  us  force  it  to  return  and  mingle  with  our 
future. 

Adèle,  you  have  a  Victor  who  loves  you  as  no 
woman  has  ever  been  loved  before,  and  who  knows, 
because  he  is  a  man,  that  happiness  can  only  be 
attained  through  labor  and  peril.  Be  of  good  cour- 
age, then.  You  will  be  my  moral  support  in  life,  as  I 
shall  be  your  physical  reliance.  We  shall  not  fail 
each  other.  A  glance  from  you  is  sufficient  to  lead 
me  in  any  direction;  it  can  raise  me  to  heaven,  and 
it  is  able  also  to  plunge  me  into  the  infernal  regions. 
Yes,  dear  love,  the  power  that  you  exercise  over  a 

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man  who  felt,  even  when  he  was  a  child,  the  neces- 
sity of  being  a  man,  ought  to  fill  you  with  pride.  I 
am  not  alarmed  at  your  immense  superiority  to  me, 
because  it  is  the  source  of  inspiration  from  which  I 
derive  strength  to  reduce  the  distance  between  us. 
Since  my  being  is  united  to  yours,  it  follows  that  it 
must  accompany  you  and  walk  worthily  of  you. 
There  are  but  few  human  ears  capable  of  under- 
standing the  language  that  I  use  here  in  speaking 
to  you,  but  I  know  no  one  on  earth  more  deserving 
of  being  addressed  through  the  heart  and  through 
the  soul  than  yourself. 

Saturday,  March  23d. 

At  last  I  shall  see  you  daily!  At  last  we  shall 
dwell  under  the  same  roof,  while  we  live  in  anticipa- 
tion of  even  greater  happiness!  Each  morning^ 
when  I  rise,  I  shall  be  able  to  see  the  first  rays  of  the 
sun  reflected  on  the  windows  behind  which  all  that  I 
hold  most  dear  and  most  precious  in  this  world  will 
be  asleep  !  I  shall  be  stationed  aloft  upon  that  tower 
like  a  sentinel  who  watches  over  your  happiness  and 
your  repose.  I  shall  labor  with  more  zeal,  and  with 
even  greater  delight,  when  I  realize  that  she  who 
is  the  reward  of  my  labor  is  so  near  me. 

Adèle,  the  only  thing  lacking  to  so  great  a  happi- 
ness is  the  presence  of  her  who  would,  more  than  all 
others,  have  rejoiced  in  it,  for  she  was  my  mother; 
she  loved  me,  and  she  loved  you  also,  you  to  whom 
her  son  confides  his  honor  and  his  felicity.  Why 
did  she  not  really  understand  you?  Only,  my  love, 
because  her  observation  stopped  short  at  your  sur- 

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roundings.  She  judged  you  by  those  whom  j^ou  are 
far,  indeed,  from  resembHng;  her  penetration  did 
not,  Hke  mine,  extend  into  the  depths  of  your  soul. 
If  she  had  seen  you  as  I  see  you,  so  noble,  so  superior, 
so  pure,  she  would  certainly  have  loved  and  appreci- 
ated you  even  more  than  I,  your  Victor,  am  able  to 
do.  My  continued  and  unchanging  love  for  you  ex- 
cited her  close  observation  ;  my  deep  esteem  for  you 
was  slowly  influencing  her  ;  and  had  it  not  been  for 
the  terrible  misfortune  that  snatched  her  from  us  so 
prematurely,  we  should,  perhaps,  have  been  happy 
in  her  presence  a  year  ago. 

Forgive  me,  Adèle,  for  mingling  such  sad  reflec- 
tions with  other  and  joyous  thoughts;  but  you  will 
not  blame  me  for  devoting  one  moment,  before  I 
abandon  myself  entirely  to  the  exquisite  enjoyment 
of  our  own  hopes,  to  that  beloved  mother  for  whose 
memory  you  will  one  day,  I  hope,  share  my  love  and 
worship. 

It  is  not  she  who  would  have  imposed  such  singu- 
lar and  almost  offensive  restrictions  upon  our  re- 
union. Holding  us  both  in  esteem,  she  would  have 
considered  it  humiliating  to  herself  had  she  op- 
pressed our  freedom  of  intercourse.  On  the  contrary, 
it  would  have  been  her  wish  that  we  should  prepare 
ourselves  for  the  holy  intimacy  of  marriage  by  lofty 
and  intimate  communion.  She  would  have  been 
aware  that  there  is  nothing  in  my  most  secret 
thoughts  which  could  be  dangerous  to  you,  and 
nothing  in  yours  but  what  would  be  useful  and 
profitable  to  me.  Your  Victor  would  have  consult- 
ed you  upon  all  subjects  ;  it  would  have  been  his  de- 

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•light  to  reveal  to  you,  when  alone,  all  the  mysteries 
of  poetry  which  touch  so  nearly  the  mysteries  of  the 
soul  and  of  virtue,  and  into  which  you  are  so  worthy 
to  be  initiated. 

It  would  have  been  sweet  to  me  to  wander  in  the 
evening,  far  from  all  disturbing  sounds,  under  the 
trees  and  amid  the  woodland,  beside  you,  and  in 
the  presence  of  a  beautiful  night!  It  is  thus  that 
things  for  the  greater  part  unknown  manifest  them- 
selves to  the  soul.  It  is  then  that  all  the  forms  of 
nature  seem  ecstatic  and  divine,  and  that  everything 
around  us  seems  in  harmony  with  the  angel  whom 
we  love.  In  such  moments,  my  dearest,  human 
words  are  inadequate  to  embod}^  what  we  feel;  but 
you  possess  that  rare  intelligence  which  is  able  to 
comprehend  all  that  is  beyond  expression.  Your 
eyes,  Adèle,  are  skilled  to  read  all  that  others  read  in 
them.  They  understand  the  celestial  language  that 
they  themselves  speak. 

For  myself,  I  would  have  wished  to  studj^  in  a  de- 
licious solitude,  that  soul  which  seems  to  me  so  exqui- 
site in  your  beautiful  expression,  to  watch  all  your 
emotions,  to  listen  to  all  3^our  doubts,  to  receive  all 
your  confidences.  I  should  have  hoped  to  strengthen 
myself  with  the  sweetness  and  the  depth  of  your  con- 
versation, to  reveal  to  j^ou  all  which  your  modesty 
renders  you  unable  to  appreciate  in  3"ourself ,  to  arouse 
those  lofty  ideas  which  came  into  existence  with  you, 
but  which,  it  may  be,  still  remain  dormant,  and  to 
show  you  what  gratitude  we  both  owe  to  God  who 
called  us  into  being. 

These  are  dreams,  it  appears.  We  are  never  alone, 
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and,  therefore,  we  are  never  together;  for  we  must 
be  alone  in  order  to  be  really  together.  Besides  this, 
no  one  in  your  home  is  capable  of  understanding  the 
language  which  I  long  to  speak  to  you,  as  I  speak 
to  a  man  of  genius,  and,  indeed,  to  you  much  more 
easily  ;  for  such  a  soul  as  3^ours  is  far  above  genius. 
This  language  I  speak  here  to  you  ;  and  in  doing  so 
I  have  no  fear  that  it  will  not  be  as  clear  to  you  as  it 
would  be  strange  and  incomprehensible  to  limited 
minds  and  materialistic  hearts. 

Dear  love,  we  are  forced  to  reconcile  ourselves  to 
holding  intercourse  only  through  letters.  Even  so 
I  shall  be  very  happy,  more  happy  than  I  had  ven- 
tured to  hope.  I  shall  see  you,  I  shall  talk  to  you 
very  frequently,  and  this  constitutes  happiness  even 
if  I  am  not  to  possess  you,  which  is  a  future  hap- 
piness that  I  am  hardly  able  to  imagine,  but  which, 
notwithstanding,  is  to  be  mine. 

Adieu,  my  Adèle  my  dearest  wife;  I  do  not  think 
you  can  complain  of  the  brevity  of  this  letter.  You 
say  that  you  have  written  to  me  more  than  I  have 
written  to  you;  listen,  since  the  8th  of  October,  1 821, 
I  have  received  thirty-two  letters  from  yow,  if  3^ou 
have  chanced  to  preserve  those  of  mine,  which  date 
from  the  same  time,  count  them,  and  I  am  confident 
that  they  will  afford  palpable  proof  that  3^our  re- 
proach is  unfounded.  Consider,  also,  how  long  my 
letters  are.  Their  length  sometimes  frightens  m.e, 
myself,  because  I  am  doubtful  whether  you  read  them 
entirely.     But  yours  I  read,  I  re-read,  I  devour. 

Adieu,  although  I  have  still  a  thousand  things 
to  tell  you.     Adieu,  my  adored  Adèle.     Sleep  well, 

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and  on  waking  bestow  a  thought  on  me,  for  there  will 
be  no  place  for  me  in  your  dreams  until  I  shall  inhabit 
my  dove-cot. 

Yet  once  more,  adieu,  and  in  saying  so,  I  embrace 
you. 

Saturday,  March  soth. 

I  have  certainly  done  a  great  deal  of  work  this 
week,  and  I  have  attained  very  little  by  it,  except 
a  great  deal  of  happiness.  Certainly  it  is  not  I  who 
will  consider  the  present  change  a  disadvantage. 
Still,  I  should  be  better  pleased  if  I  could  unite  work 
and  pleasure.  That  is  what  will  happen  at  Gentilly, 
and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  I  am  so  desirous  of  be- 
ing installed  there.  There,  there  will,  at  least,  be 
no  more  visits,  no  more  letters,  all  my  days  will  be 
filled  with  my  Adèle,  and  with  my  work. 

This  last  week  I  have  seen  you  five  days,  Sunday, 
Monday,  Wednesday,  Thursday,  and  Friday.  It  is, 
therefore,  one  of  the  happiest  contained  in  my  re- 
membrance. But  why  should  it  be  that  all  the  time 
which  I  might  otherwise  pass  with  you  does  not  be- 
long to  me?  The  precious  moments  are  consumed 
in  comings  and  goings,  and  wasted  on  conversation  ; 
this  is  an  annoyance,  both  to  my  heart  and  my  mind  ; 
for  when  I  am  not  with  you  I  feel  your  absence  least 
in  a  retirement  devoted  to  labor;  it  seems  to  me, 
Adèle,  that  working  for  your  sake  is  almost  like 
being  in  your  presence.  It  is  true,  however,  that 
this  wearisome  time  spent  in  travelling  back  and 
forth  has  also  my  Adèle  as  an  object;  therefore, 
I  ought  not  to  complain.  But  all  this  will  come 
to  an  end,  and  nothing  will  remain,  after  these  lit- 

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tie  annoyances,  but  an  immense  and  unalterable 
felicity. 

I  look  forward  with  terror  to  the  annoyances  that 
will  be  entailed  upon  me  by  the  publication  of  that 
ode,  and  consequently  of  that  collection,  if  I  decide 
definitely  in  favor  of  such  a  step.  When  I  spoke, 
just  now,  of  the  happiness  of  Gentilly  I  did  not  have 
this  in  mind.  All  these  accursed  publications  will 
interfere  with  my  complete  enjoyment  for  some 
time  to  come.  They  will  oblige  me  to  be  so  often 
in  Paris,  in  order  to  see  printers,  to  speak  to  libraries, 
to  hurry  workmen,  and  to  correct  proofs,  etc.,  that  I 
am  not  sure  but  that  this  consideration  alone  is  suf- 
ficient to  prevent  my  carrying  the  design  into  exe- 
cution. What  do  you  advise,  my  Adèle?  I  will  do 
as  you  say.  But  remember  that  I  speak  now  only 
of  unavoidable  embarrassments,  and  of  those  that 
the  author  must  discharge  in  person.  What  would 
it  be  if  I  spoke  to  you  of  all  the  others  that  printing 
commonly  entails? 

But  I  am  resolved  to  do  nothing  to  force  success. 
The  habit  now  adopted  by  men  of  letters  of  going  to 
beg  for  fame  from  the  journalists  I  regard  as  un- 
worthy of  a  man  who  respects  himself.  A  great 
many  persons  consider  this  delicacy  exaggerated, 
but  I  am  sure  that  you  will  not  blame  me  for  it.  I 
shall  send  my  book  to  the  newspapers;  they  will 
notice  it,  if  they  judge  proper  to  do  so,  but  I  will  not 
solicit  their  praise  as  though  it  were  an  alms.  I 
have  been  told  as  an  objection  to  this  course  that  the 
newspapers  have  it  in  their  power  to  make  the  suc- 
cess of  a  poor  book,  or  to  ruin  that  of  a  masterpiece. 
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I  answer  by  giving  examples  of  cases  in  which  the 
trick  played  upon  the  public  has  been  of  short  dura- 
tion, and  time  has  restored  a  proper  balance;  it  is 
of  much  more  consequence  to  me  that  the  man  who 
goes  to  another  and  says.  Praise  me,  does  a  contempti- 
ble thing.  If  he  is  following  custom,  then  I  answer, 
custom  is  contemptible;  and  do  you  judge  for  me, 
Adèle,  am  I  wrong? 

Moreover,  I  have  not,  up  to  this  time,  taken  a  step 
to  advance  myself  with  a  single  journalist,  and  it  is, 
perhaps,  for  this  reason  that  the  journalists  accord 
me  some  measure  of  consideration.  They  respect  a 
man  who  respects  himself.  I  am  sure  that  you  will 
find  these  opinions  very  obvious,  dear  love.  And  yet 
— can  you  believe  it? — they  appear  extravagant  to 
a  crowd  of  people  who,  in  spite  of  this,  are  neither 
mad  nor  vile.  Thus  it  is  that  the  world  adopts  a 
thousand  conventionalities  which  are  often  senseless, 
even  when  they  are  not  revolting. 

And,  to  take  this  occasion  of  speaking  upon  a 
subject  of  interest  to  us  both,  is  there  anything  more 
ridiculous  than  the  formalities  with  which  it  is  cus- 
iomsLxy  to  surround  the  holy  ceremony  of  marriage? 
Upon  that  morning  one  is  overwhelmed,  feted,  bored. 
One  is  the  property  of  every  indifferent  person,  of 
all  the  world,  in  fact,  except  the  being  whom  one 
loves,  and  to  whom  one  is  of  importance.  It  is  con- 
sidered necessary  to  talk  in  a  loud  voice,  and  to  laugh 
uproariously,  as  if  it  were  possible  to  indulge  in  mer- 
riment at  a  moment  of  such  happiness.  A  man  who 
is  deeply  and  truly  happy  is  grave  and  serene;  he 
does  not  display  gayet3^     What  do  his  surroundings 

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matter  to  him?  His  enjoj^ment  is  within  himself,  or 
even  more  within  another,  but  that  is  all.  When  the 
soul  is  thus  steeped  in  happiness,  it  fears  to  overflow  ; 
it  makes  no  effort  to  include  indifferent  people  in  its 
gladness;  it  expands  onlj^  to  the  soul  that  responds 
to  itself,  and  which  is  a  sharer  in  the  same  joy.  Great 
emotions,  Adèle,  are  mute;  perfect  happiness  does 
not  indulge  in  laughter,  neither  does  absorbing  grief 
find  vent  in  tears. 

These  intimate  mysteries  of  our  moral  organiza- 
tion, dear  love,  are  as  well  known  to  you  as  to  me; 
but  it  is  surprising  that  they  have  been  revealed  to 
so  few.  This  is  because,  among  us,  the  social  mind 
has  altered  the  natural  soul. 

Thus,  for  example,  instead  of  surrounding  the  hap- 
piness of  two  3^oung  people  with  shade  and  silence, 
it  seems  as  though  there  could  not  be  enough  glare 
and  noise  to  invade  it  ;  and  to  invade  it  is  to  profane 
it.  What  do  fêtes,  banquets,  and  dances  matter  to 
two  hearts  which  love  each  other,  and  which  are  thus 
united?  Can  all  these  add  another  happiness  to 
that  of  marriage? 

Pardon  me,  dear  love,  but  if  I  had  my  own  way 
nothing  of  tliis  kind  would  occur.  Some  beautiful 
day  in  summer,  after  having  passed  the  happy  hours 
together  with  some  true  friends,  who  would,  even 
so,  be  unnecessary  to  our  happiness,  we  would  go 
in  the  evening  to  walk  alone  in  the  fields,  full  of 
sweet  dreams  and  delicious  emotions.  A  village 
church  would  appear  before  us.  Your  Victor  would 
lead  you  to  it;  you  yourself  would  have  been  in- 
formed of  nothing  ;  the  altar  would  be  adorned  with 

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flowers;  near  the  altar  would  be  j^our  parents  and 
our  friends,  forgotten  during  our  walk.  A  priest 
would  come  forward,  and  we  should  be  united  in  a 
moment,  as  if  by  enchantment.  Then  we  would  re- 
turn home,  side  by  side.  All  our  dreams  of  a  pure, 
intimate,  and  noble  union  would  be  realized.  Noth- 
ing profane  would  mingle  with  things  so  sacred. 
During  the  evening  our  sympathetic  friends  would 
respect  the  angelic  peace  of  our  felicity.  The  next 
day  no  indiscreet  glance  would  disturb  our  happi- 
ness ;  no  importunate  word  would  probe  the  secret  of 
our  souls  and  of  our  lives,  or,  rather,  of  our  soul  and 
of  our  life.  Adèle,  this  picture  of  our  union  transports 
me  ;  if  you  love  me,  it  will  not  be  indifferent  to  you. 

Oh,  my  Adèle!  what  does  all  this  that  I  say  to 
you  matter?  Even  in  the  midst  of  the  most  insipid 
accessories  the  day  of  our  marriage  will  be  none  the 
less  the  most  beautiful  day  of  my  life,  together  with 
that  day  on  which  you  deigned  to  own  that  you 
loved  me. 

Adieu,  my  noble,  my  gentle,  my  beloved  Adèle.  It 
is  in  no  sense  a  humiliation  for  me  to  say  that  I  am 
not  worthy  to  kiss  the  ground  under  your  feet.  I 
do  not  know  any  one  in  the  world  who  is  worthy  to 
do  so;  and  3^et,  in  your  adorable  goodness,  you  will 
permit  me  to  embrace  you,  will  you  not? 

Your  Respectful  and  Faithful 
Husband. 

Monday,  10.15  p.  m. 
Dear  love,  I  have  just  been  cruelly  defrauded  of 
a  sweet  hope.     I  had  arranged  to  be  at  liberty  this 

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evening  at  half-past  seven,  in  order  to  see  you  once 
more  before  the  day  ended,  even  though  it  was  only 
while  getting  into  the  carriage.  At  a  quarter  past 
eight  I  was  in  the  rue  du  Temple,  for  I  thought  that 
you  would  not  go  out  before  the  half  hour.  Nine 
o'clock  struck;  I  was  still  in  the  same  place,  and  in 
the  same  attitude.  In  short,  it  was  not  until  after 
nine  o'clock  that  I  lost  all  hope,  being  confident  that 
you  would  not  return  so  late.  Thus,  instead  of  fol- 
lowing afar  ofï  the  carriage  in  which  you  sat,  and 
thereb}^  returning  content,  instead  of  this  happiness 
upon  which  I  had  counted,  I  was  forced  to  retrace 
my  steps  sadly  along  the  streets  to  my  own  gloomy 
house  without  having  my  Adèle  before  my  eyes  to 
relieve  the  way  of  its  tedium.  I  am  now  writing  to 
you,  so  that  the  day  ends  with  a  little  happiness, 
and  you  must  pity  me  for  not  having  arrived  a 
trifle  sooner. 

This  long  evening  of  useless  expectation  has  car- 
ried me  back  to  the  da3^s  of  our  separation.  The 
extravagances  of  this  kind  which  I  then  committed 
would  seem  to  you  rather  pitiable  than  acce])table, 
if,  indeed,  they  ought  not  to  be  altogether  hidden 
from  you.  Only,  Adèle,  when  3^ou  tell  me  that  I  do 
not  love  you,  think  again,  because  whatever  idea 
you  may  form  of  my  devotion  to  you,  you  have,  never- 
theless, no  conception  of  its  reality. 

I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Adèle,  which  em- 
barrasses me  very  much.  I  am  not  fitted  to  say  it 
to  you,  and  I  do  not  know  how  to  say  it  to  you.  I 
can  only  commend  myself  to  3"our  indulgence,  and 
trust  you  to  regard  only  my  intention.     If  3^ou  but 

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see  it  as  it  exists  in  my  heart,  you  will  appreciate  it, 
and  it  is  that  which  emboldens  me.  I  wish,  Adèle, 
that  you  were  less  afraid  of  soiling  your  dress,  when 
you  walk  in  the  street.  Yesterday  is  not  the  first 
time  that  I  have  observed  with  distress  the  precau- 
tions that  you  take.  ...  I  do  not  know  whether  you 
do  so  in  accordance  with  views  held  by  your  mother, 
views  which,  to  say  the  least,  are  singular,  for  it 
seems  to  me  that  modesty  is  more  valuable  than  a 
dress,  although  a  great  many  women  think  differ- 
ently. I  do  not  know  how  to  describe  to  you,  dear 
love,  the  suffering  I  endured  yesterday,  and  again 
to-day,  in  the  rue  de  Saints  -  Pères,  from  seeing 
passers-by  turn  their  heads,  and  perceiving  that  she 
whom  I  respect  as  I  do  God  himself  was  the  object 
(unaware  to  herself)  of  impudent  observation  under 
my  own  eyes.  I  should  have  liked  to  warn  you,  my 
Adèle,  but  I  did  not  dare,  for  I  did  not  know  what 
terms  to  employ  to  render  you  such  a  service.  I  do  not 
mean  that  your  modesty  need  be  seriously  alarmed, 
but  such  a  little  thing  is  sufficient  for  a  woman  to 
attract  attention  from  men  upon  the  street!  Never- 
theless, I  beg  you,  dearest  Adèle,  to  be  careful  hence- 
forward in  regard  to  what  I  say  here,  unless  you  wish 
me  to  box  the  ears  of  the  first  insolent  bystander 
whose  glance  dares  to  turn  in  your  direction  ;  I  have 
had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  both  3"esterday  and  to- 
day to  repress  the  temptation  to  do  this,  and  I 
will  not  answer  for  being  master  of  myself  another 
time.  One  thing  is  very  sure,  and  that  is  that  it  is 
in  great  part  to  this  impatience  and  this  torture 
that   you    should  attribute    the   air   of   annoyance 

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on  account  of  which  you  have  made  me  so  many 
reproaches,* 

I  have  hesitated  a  long  time,  my  love,  before  speak- 
ing to  you  on  this  matter,  which  is  somewhat  delicate 
in  its  nature,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  your  husband, 
who  is  your  best  friend,  was  the  proper  person  to 
bring  it  to  your  notice,  and  that  it  was  no  less  my 
duty  to  protect  you  from  an  insolent  glance  than 
from  any  other  insult.  It  will,  doubtless,  be  quite 
sufficient  for  me  to  have  called  your  attention  to  the 
subject,  and  I  am  quite  aware  that  you  can  have  act- 
ed thus  only  from  lack  of  thought,  or  from  a  too  blind 

*"  .  .  .  Marius  followed  Cosette  with  his  eyes.  .  ,  .  All  at 
once  a  puflf  of  wind  more  boisterous  than  the  rest,  and  probably  pre- 
occupied with  the  affairs  of  spring,  rushed  around  the  nursery  gar- 
den, burst  into  the  road,  encircled  the  young  girl  in  a  delicious 
blast,  worthy  of  the  nymphs  of  Virgil  or  the  fauns  of  Theocritus, 
and  in  doing  so  blew  aside  her  dress,  that  robe  more  sacred  than 
those  of  Isis,  almost  as  high  as  her  garter.  An  exquisitely  formed 
calf  was  exposed  to  view,  Marius  saw  it.  He  was  furious  with 
exasperation.  The  young  girl  quickly  lowered  her  dress  with  an 
afifrighted  movement,  divinely  modest,  but  none  the  less  was  he 
indignant.  How  could  such  a  thing  be  possible?  What  she  had 
just  done  was  horrible. 

"...  Some  one  crossed  the  road.  It  was  one  of  the  invalides^ 
bent,  withered,  and  ghastly  pale,  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  Louis 
XV.,  bearing  upon  his  breast  the  little  oval  badge  of  red  cloth  or- 
namented with  crossed  swords,  which  is  the  soldier's  cross  of  St. 
Louis,  and  further  decorated  with  a  loose  coat  without  inside  sleeves, 
a  gray  mustache  and  a  wooden  leg.  It  seemed  to  Marius  that  he 
discerned  an  air  of  extreme  satisfaction  about  this  figure.  It  even 
struck  him  that  the  elderly  cynic  hobbling  towards  him  gave  him 
a  friendly  and  joyous  wink  as  if  chance  had  put  them  in  communi- 
cal'-on,  and  they  had  some  good  joke  in  common.  What  had  hap- 
pened to  occasion  this  dilapidated  warrior  such  delight?  What 
was  the  connection  between  his  wooden  leg  and  the  other  just 
spoken  of?  Marius  gave  way  to  a  paroxysm  of  jealousy.  'It  may 
be  that  he  caught  sight  of  it  !'  he  said  to  himself,  and  he  was  seized 
with  a  desire  to  kill  the  ancient  soldier." 

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obedience  to  your  mother's  wishes.  What  I  say  here 
will  only  afford  3^ou  an  additional  proof,  though  an 
entirely  unnecessary  one,  of  that  respect  which  falls 
very  little  short  of  worship.  My  dearest  Adèle,  I 
should  be  the  very  first  person  to  honor  your  moth- 
er's goodness,  as  well  as  all  her  other  excellent  qual- 
ities, but  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  she  is  too  indif- 
ferent towards  certain  conventionalities,  while  she 
originates,  as  it  were  in  return,  a  great  many  others 
that  are  very  useless. 

For  example,  can  there  be  a  more  pernicious  maxim 
than  that  which  you  have  quoted  to  me — that  a  wom- 
an should  he  more  reserved  with  the  man  she  is  going 
to  marry  than  with  any  one  else  ?  For  mj^^self,  I 
frankly  admit  that  it  would,  in  itself,  be  sufficient  to 
make  me  avoid  a  young  girl  who  put  it  into  practice. 
But  you,  my  Adèle,  you  have  an  exquisite  instinct, 
which  teaches  3^ou  all  the  proprieties.  There  is  in 
3^our  moral  organism  something  which  strikes  me  as 
miraculous  when  I  consider  how  your  soul  has 
emerged,  whole  and  pure,  from  all  the  false  ideas 
which  have  surrounded  it  from  infancy. 

Adieu.  You  are  an  angel,  and  yet  I  dare  to  love 
you.  Last  Monda3^  at  this  same  hour,  I  was  very 
happy.  Adieu,  adieu.  Sleep  well.  I  will  try  to  see 
you  to-morrow  morning. 

I  embrace  thee  tenderly. 

Thy  Husband. 

Write  me  a  verj^  long  letter,  and  remember  the  por- 
trait, which,  after  ^^ourself,  will  be  for  your  Victor 
the  most  precious  thing  that  he  has  in  the  world. 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

Thursday,  April  4th. 

I  had  hoped  to  see  you  this  morning  at  church.  I 
waited  for  you  a  long  time,  and  entirely  in  vain.  I 
shall  come  back  at  three  o'clock,  and  if  I  do  not  see 
you  then,  I  shall  at  least  have  the  consolation  of  hav- 
ing done  for  you  what  you  would  certainly  not  have 
done  for  me.  This  will  be  at  once  a  consolation  and 
a  distress,  for  one  always  wishes  to  be  beloved  in  the 
same  measure  that  one  loves. 

You  complain,  dear  love,  that  I  write  to  you,  so 
you  say,  less  than  formerly.  It  seems  to  me  that 
this  complaint  is  very  unfounded.  If  I  listened  to 
my  own  wishes,  Adèle,  I  would  devote  to  the  happi- 
ness of  writing  to  you  all  the  hours  that  I  cannot 
consecrate  to  the  happiness  of  seeing  you.  But  this 
would  be  egoism,  and  you  would  be  the  first  to  re- 
mind me  that  all  my  hours  should  be  employed  use- 
fully, rather  than  agreeably,  and  that  I  ought  not, 
as  yet,  to  think  of  spending  all  my  time  on  things 
that  are  for  mj^  own  pleasure.  I  assure  you  I  am 
obliged  to  exercise  all  mj^  self-restraint  not  to  send 
you  each  week  an  immense  packet,  in  which  one 
solitary  idea,  that  of  love  and  marriage,  is  reproduced 
under  all  its  forms  and  in  all  its  phases.  All  occu- 
pations which  do  not  lead  me  directly  to  you  are 
without  interest  to  me,  and  they  must  be  of  the  most 
necessary  kind  for  me  to  resign  myself  to  pursuing 
them.  Thus,  when  my  days  are  passed  in  the  most 
wearisome  manner,  in  the  midst  of  the  multifarious 
business  that  is  iuvSeparable  from  a  profession  and  a 
reputation,  I  recompense  myself  for  all  my  fatigue 
by  writing  to  you.     I  forget,  when  doing  so,  that 

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there  is  an  external  world  around  me,  that  it  is  filled 
with  men  moving  to  and  fro  in  pursuit  of  good  and 
evil,  and  with  a  constant  procession  of  events,  while 
the  heavens  above  it  are  full  of  stars  and  of  clouds  ;  I 
forget  everything,  in  short,  to  think  only  of  her  with 
whom,  for  me,  this  moral  and  physical  universe  is 
peopled,  and  without  whom  I  should  wander  in  it  as 
in  a  desert.  In  these  moments  of  oblivion,  when  the 
remembrance  of  you,  and  of  you  alone,  dominates 
every  idea,  and  when  my  thoughts  can  cling  to  you 
unreservedly  and  without  distraction,  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  am  enabled  to  contemplate  the  things  of  this 
earth  from  a  lofty  elevation.  Then,  just  as  I  weep 
at  those  things  which  excite  men  to  laughter,  so  I 
feel  within  myself  an  impulse  to  laugh  at  that  which 
moves  them  to  tears.  At  such  times  I  am  able  to 
separate  distinctly  the  animal  in  humanity  from  the 
soul,  which  is  divine.  The  contempt  aroused  in  me 
by  wholly  material  griefs  renders  me  the  more  sen- 
sitive to  the  slightest  suffering  arising  from  the  heart. 
Adèle,  all  these  things  of  which  life  is  composed 
take  on  a  new  face  when  one  loves.  When  the  soul 
is  steeped  in  love,  which  is,  indeed,  its  natural  life, 
it  acquires  a  new  power  by  which  to  observe  that 
world  in  the  midst  of  which  it  is  in  exile.  One  be- 
comes indulgent,  because  one  is  filled  with  the  per- 
ception that  if  one  is  to  be  severe,  one  has  need  to  be 
so  ceaselessly;  one  recognizes  that  very  few  things 
on  earth  deserve  hatred  and  indignation,  and  that 
one  must  regard  the  folly  and  baseness  of  the  mass 
of  mankind  with  very  little  contempt  and  abundant 
pity. 

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You  are  afraid  that  there  is  no  steadfastness  in 
my  principles  :  reassure  yourself,  my  love.  It  is  not 
for  me  to  be  lacking  in  pity  for  others.  I  am  too  con- 
scious of  my  own  deficiencies,  and  I  feel  them  above 
all  when  I  converse  with  you,  my  beloved  Adèle. 
More  than  this,  you  do  not  know  how  to  imagine 
with  what  incredible  tenderness  I  surround  all  my 
brothers  in  humanit\\  I  accustomed  myself  early 
to  seek  in  any  evil  which  was  done  me  for  the  motive 
that  had  actuated  a  man  thus  to  injure  me.  Thus 
my  anger  is  almost  always  changed  in  a  moment 
into  a  continued  and  profound  compassion.  It  even 
happens,  verj^  often,  that  I  find  a  praiseworthy  prin- 
ciple as  the  source  of  an  evil  action.  And  when  this 
is  the  case,  you  will  admit  that  there  is  little  merit 
in  consoling  oneself  for  the  injury  received  and  in 
pardoning  it.  I  return  always  to  the  thought  that 
I  cannot  expect  from  ordinary  mortals  the  perfection 
of  my  Adèle.  After  this  reflection  it  is  very  easy 
for  me  to  be  indulgent. 

Dear  love,  it  is  very  remarkable  that  love  has  usual- 
ly been  regarded  as  folly,  madness,  a  diseased  con- 
dition, etc.  Yet  love  teaches  the  most  beautiful  of 
philosophies.  I  have  occupied  you  with  very  serious 
thoughts,  but  your  mind  must  feel  itself  at  home 
among  them  as  in  a  native  countr3^;  for  I  am  sure 
that  there  is  nothing  in  what  I  have  here  expressed  so 
feebly  that  you  do  not  feel  as  I  do,  and  more  than  I  do. 
It  is  only  yourself  whom  I  admit  to  these  intimate 
meditations.  They  can  be  understood  only  by  a  heart 
which  lives  at  the  same  time  in  both  innocence  and 
love.     A  child  could  not  3'et  comprehend  them;  an 

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old  man  could  no  longer  do  so.     It  is  this  youth  of  the 

soul,  Adèle,  which  we  shall  always  preserve,  if  your 

affection  for  your  Victor  is  eternal,  as  his  tenderness 

for  you  will  be. 

Adieu  for  to-day.     I  am  going  to  Saint  Sulpice. 

Shall  you  be  there? 

Friday,  April  sth. 

I  saw  you  yesterday  evening  after  all,  and  I  am, 
therefore,  altogether  happy.  What  is  this  enchant- 
ress's spell  that  3^ou  exercise  upon  me?  In  spite  of 
the  fact  that  I  now  see  you  very  often,  3^our  presence 
always  produces  the  same  effect  upon  me,  and  with 
the  same  force.  If  I  perceive  you  at  a  distance,  even 
at  a  great  distance,  as  it  was  yesterday  when  I  rec- 
ognized you  from  the  rue  d'Assis,  my  heart  beats 
and  I  redouble  my  steps,  just  as  I  did  when  I  saw 
you  only  at  long  intervals,  during  brief  moments,  and 
thanks  to  long-watched-for  accidents.  My  Adèle,  do 
what  I  will,  I  cannot  figure  to  myself  what  will  be 
my  felicity  when  we  are  united.  Forgive  me  for  so 
constantly  repeating  the  same  thing  to  you,  but  I 
have  only  one  thought,  and  to  whom  should  I  say 
it  if  not  to  you?  Adieu  for  to-day.  I  am  going  to 
employ  myself  in  packing  my  trunk  for  that  retreat 
in  which  so  much  happiness  is  in  store  for  me.  This 
evening  I  must  undergo  the  weariness  of  paying 
some  calls.  Adieu  ;  to-morrow  the  day  will  be  beauti- 
ful to  me  from  the  moment  that  I  rise,  for  I  shall  pass 
my  morning  in  writing  to  you,  and  the  rest  of  my 
day  at  your  side.  Adieu,  adieu!  I  will  not  begin 
another  line  because  I  should  not  be  able  to  cease^ 
it  costs  me  so  much  to  leave  the  paper  blank. 

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Saturday  Morning,  April  6th,  1822. 
I  was  much  distressed  and  very  indignant,  on 
Sunday,  dear  love,  to  hear  with  what  infamous  slan- 
ders the  memory  of  my  mother  has  been  soiled  in 
your  mind.  I  have  implored  you  to  believe  noth- 
ing of  the  sort,  and  I  have  so  conjured  you  because 
it  is  of  vital  importance  to  me  that  she  who  shares 
my  life  should  not  think  evil  of  her  to  whom  I  owe 
that  life  itself.  Adèle,  if  you  have  any  esteem  for 
your  Victor,  think  that  the  woman  who  has  been 
accused  of  such  a  vile  calumny  towards  a  young 
girl  is  she  who  nursed  me,  who  brought  me  up;  if 
this  consideration  is  nothing  to  you,  think  of  what  ex- 
cellent virtues  this  noble  mother  gave  us  an  example 
in  the  midst  of  the  greatest  griefs.  My  mother  com- 
plained very  little,  j^et  she  suffered  much.  And 
while  inspiring  in  her  children  a  horror  of  the  vice 
that  wrecked  her  own  life,  she  often  said  that  her 
misery  would  itself  create  the  happiness  of  those 
whom  her  sons  married.  Alas,  that  she  was  not  per- 
mitted to  witness  the  accomplishment  of  her  predic- 
tion! I  regret,  dear  love,  that  you  did  not  speak  to 
me  earlier  in  regard  to  this  imposture,  designed,  no 
doubt,  to  injure  me  in  3"our  esteem,  for  mj^  mother's 
memory  would  then  have  been  the  sooner  cleared 
from  this  odious  slander.  For,  dear  love,  I  do  not 
doubt  that  you  have  by  this  time  reflected  on  the 
baselessness  of  such  an  accusation.  I  will  not, 
therefore,  attach  any  importance  to  it.  I  will  only 
tell  you  that  I  never  heard  my  mother  speak  of  3^our 
family  or  of  yourself  with  angry  feeling  to  a  stranger  ; 
on  the  contrary,  when  by  chance  3'our  name  was 

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introduced  into  the  conversation,  which,  to  tell  the 
truth,  happened  but  rarely,  she  spoke  of  you  only 
in  terms  of  esteem  and  friendsliip. 

I  will  tell  you  with  the  same  frankness,  that  when 
my  mother  was  alone  with  me,  and  saw  me  always 
sad,  gloomy,  and  depressed,  she  sometimes  gave 
vent  to  her  distress  in  complaints  against  me  and 
against  you  ;  but  as  soon  as  she  saw  clearly  that  my 
sadness  was  only  increased  by  this  she  kept  silence. 
I  admit  that  she  did  all  that  she  could,  with  loyalty, 
to  banish  you  from  my  memory  ;  she  tried  to  distract 
me  with  the  dissipations  of  the  world;  she  would 
have  liked  me  to  intoxicate  myself  with  the  joys  of 
self-love.  My  poor  mother  !  she  herself  had  implant- 
ed in  my  heart  a  disdain  for  the  world  and  a  con- 
tempt for  false  pride.  She  saw  very  plainly  that 
everything  palled  upon  me,  because  I  had  set  my 
heart  elsewhere  than  in  joys  that  fade  and  pleasures 
which  are  evanescent.  I  never  spoke  of  you,  but 
she  read  in  my  eyes  that  I  thought  ceaselessly  of  you. 

Why  should  this  noble  mother  have  been  am- 
bitious for  me?  Why  did  she  desire  for  her  son  a 
prosperit}^  which  is  not  happiness?  Among  all  the 
wisdom  that  regulated  her  own  conduct,  one  wise 
perception  alone  failed  her  :  she  forgot  that  the  soul 
cannot  be  nourished  by  riches  and  honor,  and  that 
life  loses  always  in  happiness  what  it  gains  in 
brilliancy.  This  error  of  my  mother's  will  some 
time  or  other  be  a  great  lesson  to  me.  Should  I,  in 
my  own  maturity,  conceive  well-calculated  projects 
and  worldly  expectations  for  my  children,  I  will  not 
permit  these  to  take  precedence  of  their  affections, 

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The   Love    Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

or  of  the  inclinations  that  arise  in  their  own  hearts; 
provided  always  that  I  am  sure  of  the  purity  of  such 
inclinations  and  the  nobleness  of  such  affections.  I 
would  endeavor  to  direct  my  children  by  my  own 
experience  towards  their  greatest  happiness,  but  I 
would  never  attempt  to  destroy  that  which  is  inde- 
structible— a  virtuous  love  in  a  pure  nature. 

Adèle,  my  beloved  Adèle,  you  will  share  these  cares, 
you  will  aid  me  by  your  counsels,  and  if  ever  (which 
is  impossible)  I  should  forget  what  I  say  here,  and 
should  wish  to  treat  an  innocent  passion  with  sever- 
ity, you  yourself  will  remind  me,  my  sweet  Adèle, 
of  what  your  husband  at  twenty  years  resolved  for 
the  father  at  forty.  This  will  come  true,  will  it  not 
— this  delightful  occupation  of  studying  our  chil- 
dren in  our  own  home,  and  observing  their  progress 
through  what  we  have  ourselves  experienced;  of 
seeing  them  live  over,  and  live  over  happily,  all  the 
story  of  our  own  youth?  Then,  dear  love,  we  shall 
be  able  to  say,  like  my  noble  mother,  that  their  hap- 
piness has  arisen  from  our  suffering. 

Adieu,  my  Adèle  ;  I  shall  see  you  in  a  few  moments. 
This  very  evening  I  shall  live  under  the  same  roof 
with  you.  Embrace  me  in  anticipation  of  so  much 
happiness.  Adieu,  my  wife  ;  adieu,  my  adored  Adèle. 
I  embrace  you  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  times. 

MAY  AND  JUNE 
Residence  at  Gentilly 

Monday,  May  6th,  5  a.  m. 
How  can  you  suggest,  Adèle,  that  anj^  other  occu- 
pation gives  me  as  much  delight  as  writing  to  you, 

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I  who,  if  I  dared,  would  spend  in  this  way  every  mo- 
ment that  I  cannot  pass  at  your  side,  in  order  that  the 
nature  of  my  happiness,  only,  might  be  changed? 
Frankly,  I  cannot  believe  that  this  reproach  is  seri- 
ous on  your  part.  Must  I  tell  you  all?  To  write 
to  you  is  for  me  such  an  exquisite  joy  that  all  ensu- 
ing work  becomes  uninteresting  and  almost  impos- 
sible to  me.  How  can  you  expect  me  to  pass  tran- 
quilly from  an  emotion  at  once  so  sweet  and  so  pro- 
found to  wholly  indifferent  considerations?  How 
can  you  desire  that  I  should  attempt  to  paint  imag- 
inary joys  and  sorrows  when  I  am  still  overflowing 
with  my  own  sorrow  or  my  own  joy?  Do  not  find 
fault  with  me,  Adèle.  You  do  not  understand  the  pe- 
culiar suffering  that  is  caused  by  the  forcible  exer- 
cise of  one's  imagination  on  a  thousand  different 
and  indifferent  things  when  one's  whole  being  is 
absorbed  in  one  single  memory,  one  single  idea.  It 
is  for  you  alone  that  my  work  is  undertaken,  from 
you  always  that  my  inspirations  proceed;  but  al- 
though your  image  presides  over  all  my  thoughts, 
the  nature  of  my  ideas,  which  is  necessarily  varied, 
often  necessitates  its  influencing  them  from  a  dis- 
tance, on  which  account  it  only  partially  suffices  me. 
Now,  dear  love,  do  not  attempt  to  scold  me  for  these 
confidences,  and,  above  all,  do  not  make  me  the  most 
unjust  of  all  reproaches — that  of  not  finding  pleas- 
ure in  the  thing  which,  from  my  own  point  of  view, 
is  its  chief  source.  Oh,  my  Adèle,  when  will  you 
believe  in  the  extent  of  my  love? 

You  reminded  me  in  your  last  letter  that  it  was  a 
long  time  since  I  had  spoken  to  j^ou  of  writing  to 

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me.  This  silence,  which,  in  truth,  has  cost  me  a 
great  deal,  arose  only  from  the  fact  that  knowing 
you  to  be  a  great  deal  with  your  mother,  I  feared  to 
seem  uselessly  importunate.  I  will  not  disguise  from 
you  that  your  complaint,  although  it  had  no  founda- 
tion, was  a  source  of  pleasure  to  me.  I  perceived 
with  delight  that  you  had  observed  what  had  been 
so  painful  to  me,  and  I  own  that  I  m3^self  should 
have  been  keenly  distressed  if  you  had  passed  three 
weeks  without  writing  to  me,  and  without  yourself 
perceiving  the  fact-  I  allow  myself  to  be  carried 
3.\Y3iy,  and  I  do  not  notice  that  the  morning  has 
passed  without  my  having  worked  a  little  for  my 
Adèle.  My  only  happiness  at  present,  my  dear  and 
very  unjust  Adèle,  would  be  to  be  able  to  talk  to  you 
all  the  time  that  I  am  with  you,  and  to  write  to  you 
all  the  time  that  I  am  at  a  distance.  But  alas! 
it  is  always  necessary  to  forego  what  one  most 
desires. 

Adèle,  if  you  still  doubt  my  love,  I  will  ask  of 
heaven  but  one  thing  more,  and  that  is  to  show  you, 
once  only,  my  naked  soul,  such  as  it  is,  in  its  inex- 
pressible teaiderness  for  you,  and  then  to  let  me  die. 
Adèle,  Adèle,  no  one  in  the  world,  not  even  your 
mother,  loves  you  with  a  love  that  approaches  mine, 
even  at  an  extreme  distance.  This  is  nothing  more 
than  the  truth,  for  no  one  knows  you  as  I  do. 

Oh,  how  I  love  you!  Will  you  come  to  me  in  the 
morning?  The  more  I  see  you,  the  more  I  have  need 
of  seeing  you.  Adieu,  adieu,  my  adored  wife.  An- 
swer me  if  it  is  possible  to  do  so.  Your  sweet  letter 
of  yesterday  gave  me  so  much  happiness! 

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The   Love   Letters    of  Victor   Hugo 

Tuesday  Morning. 

You  wish  that  I  should  write  to  you  before  doing 
anything  else,  dear  love!  You  have  a  great  deal  of 
confidence  in  my  poor  discretion  to  believe  that,  after 
I  have  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  writing  to  you  in  the 
morning,  I  shall  be  able  to  accomplish  anything  in 
the  remainder  of  the  day. 

When  I  write  to  you,  as  I  am  doing  now,  I  begin 
where  I  ought  to  leave  off  ;  for  this  happiness  should 
be  the  evening's  recompense  for  labor,  while,  as  it  is, 
it  will,  on  the  contrary,  make  the  work  in  store  for  me 
very  onerous,  by  force  of  the  contrast  which  must 
unavoidably  arise, 

I  shall  be  obliged,  however,  to  find  strength  to  tear 
myself  from  you,  my  Adèle,  in  order  to  devote  my- 
self  to  some  insipid  correspondence  and  that  eternal 
romance.*  When  wdll  you,  at  last,  be  at  my  side  to 
lend  charm  and  interest  to  these  wearisome  occupa- 
tions ? 

And  yet,  dear  love,  when  I  dream  of  that  time  I 
ask  myself  if  I  shall  really  have  sufficient  force  of 
mind  to  devote  myself  to  my  occupation  when  you 
are  alwaj^^s  near  me.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  shall 
need  a  supernatural  strength  to  refrain  from  passing 
the  whole  day  in  communion  with  you;  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  shall  be  able  to  occupy  myself  only  in 
caressing  you,  in  covering  you  with  kisses  and  en- 
dearments. M}'^  angel,  tell  me,  would  you  wish  me 
to  refuse  to  abandon  myself  to  this  intoxicating  hap- 
piness, when  I  shall  be  free  to  enjoy  it?    It  must  be 

*  Han  d'Islande. 
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The    Love    Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

you,  dearest  Adèle,  who  will  restrain  me  when  it  is 
necessary,  for  never,  no,  never,  should  I  achieve 
such  a  painful  victor}^  over  myself! 

But  it  is  true,  dear  love,  that  the  desire  to  see  you 
rich  and  happy,  entirely  happy,  is  all-powerful  with 
me,  and  that  you  will  only  need  to  recall  me  by  a 
word,  in  order  to  make  me  deny  myself  at  once  the 
sweetest  of  all  felicities.  I  wish  to  keep  a  little  of 
this  happiness  in  store  by  writing  to  you  this  even- 
ing.    Therefore,  adieu,  for  the  moment. 

May  I2th,  5.15  P.  M. 

Dear  love,  I  have  just  finished  working,  and  I  am 
going  to  anticipate  by  writing  to  you  the  happy  mo- 
ment when  I  shall  see  3"ou.  I  own  that  when  I  reflect 
that  I  am  still  separated  from  j^ou  by  the  time  re- 
quired to  fill  this  page  and  a  half,  I  cannot  glance  over 
its  extent  without  a  certain  terror.  The  happiness 
of  writing  to  you  is,  after  all,  so  very  different  from 
the  happiness  of  seeing  you  !  I  do  not  know  why  it 
is,  but  the  more  I  see  you,  the  more  I  feel  how  neces- 
sary the  sight  of  j^ou  is  to  m}^  existence;  every  day 
I  tell  myself  that  it  is  impossible  to  be  more  perfect 
than  you  are,  and  every  evening  I  go  to  rest  with 
the  conviction  that  I  have  discovered  in  you  some 
new  perfection.  This  state  of  things  has  lasted  for 
such  a  long  time,  my  Adèle,  that  it  would  of  itself 
be  sufficient  proof  that  my  love  for  you  will  never  end. 
Oh,  if  you  only  loved  me,  how  happy  we  should  be! 

When  my  thoughts  travel  back  to  that  sad  time, 
which  is  now  over,  and  when  I  compare  it  with  the 
happiness  that  I  am  so  soon  to  enjoy,  I  stand  amazed 

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The   Love    Letters   of   yictor  Hugo 

at  the  distance  that  hfe  can  cover  in  so  brief  an  in- 
terval. I  beheve  that  it  is,  indeed,  but  a  step  from 
the  depths  of  despair  to  the  height  of  happiness. 
And  when  I  look  back,  from  the  point  I  have  now 
reached,  to  the  condition  I  was  in  a  year  ago,  I  feel 
like  a  traveller  who  regards  with  terror  an  abyss 
from  which  he  has  just  escaped. 

I  say  to  myself  often:  Perhaps  we  have  still 
many  trials  to  undergo,  many  annoyances  to  bear, 
it  may  even  be  many  griefs  to  endure  ;  but  it  is  im- 
possible that  we  should  ever  live  over  again  this  ter- 
rible past.  Our  happy  future  has  been  paid  for  in 
advance  by  so  much  suffering,  that  one  could  not  a 
second  time  endure  such  misery  without  dying. 
What  does  it  matter  to  us,  after  all?  Whatever 
trials  may  yet  be  in  store  for  us,  if  we  support  them 
together  we  shall  not  suffer  under  them;  is  this  not 
true,  my  dearest  love?  Ah!  if  you  love  me,  Adèle, 
you  will  not  deny  this.  But  yes!  you  do  love  me, 
my  adored  Adèle,  you  do  love  me,  since  I  live! 

Saturday,  May  25th. 
I  spent  a  happy  day  yesterday.  Those  fatigues 
that  I  endured  for  you  and  near  you  were  sweet  to 
me.  When  your  lips  approached  mine,  when  your 
gentle  hand,  in  wiping  my  brow,  rested  on  my  fore- 
head, I  would  not  have  given  those  moments,  Adèle, 
for  all  the  happiness  in  heaven  and  earth.  Some- 
times I  have  moments  of  intoxicating  happiness. 
At  these  times  I  ask  myself  what  I  have  done  to  merit 
them,  and  I  find  that  I  am  in  no  way  deserving, 
and  that  all  I  have  suffered  is  little,  indeed,  to  at- 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

tain  the  blissful  future  which  is  before  my  eyes.  I 
am  worthy  of  you,  my  adored  Adèle,  only  because 
I  am  sensible  that  no  one  can  be  so.  At  least,  you 
will  have  in  me  a  husband  who  will  appreciate  you 
and  honor  you  as  you  should  be  appreciated  and  hon- 
ored. What  sometimes  makes  me  believe  that  I  am 
a  little  the  superior  of  other  men  is  that  it  is  not  given 
to  them  as  it  is  to  me  to  feel  your  angelic  superiority. 
It  must  be  that  there  is  some  faculty  in  my  soul 
which  is  lacking  to  theirs.  But  in  other  respects, 
what  am  I  that  I  should  share  your  life?  Never- 
theless, Adèle,  I  shall  share  it.  No,  I  cannot  un- 
derstand how  such  great  unworthiness  can  merit 
and  experience  such  great  happiness. 

I  am  going  to  see  you  in  a  few  moments;  in  a 
few  moments  I  shall  know  if  your  night  was  peace- 
ful, if  you  think  of  me  both  sleeping  and  waking, 
if  you  felt  during  this  long  morning  a  little  wish 
for  the  arrival  of  that  hour  which  must  unite  me  to 
you.  Adèle,  for  myself,  it  is  these  ideas  which  com- 
pletely fill  m3^  life;  or,  rather,  there  is  only  one  idea 
which  does  so.  Does  she  think  of  nie  ?  Has  she 
thought  of  me  ?  And  if  ever  an  inner  voice  should 
answer  no,  if  ever  I  cease  to  possess  the  conscious- 
ness that  you  love  me,  Adèle,  then  I  shall  cease  to 
exist,  because  mj^  existence  will  have  no  further  sus- 
tenance, because  my  soul  will  no  longer  have  any 
mission  among  the  souls  of  men.  Take  care,  Adèle, 
for  what  I  say  to  you  is  the  naked  truth,  and  I  do 
not  believe  that  you  could  ever  desire  my  death. 

Adieu,  my  adored  angel.  I  embrace  you  tenderly. 
Answer  me  as  soon  as  you  are  able  to  do  so.     Adieu. 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor  Hugo 

Monday. 

I  wish,  my  adored  Adèle,  that  I  could  tell  you  all 
that  is  passing  in  my  soul  at  this  moment.  You 
would  not  say  to  me  then,  as  you  so  often  do,  that 
you  are  unhappy.  I  wish  that  I  could  seize  the 
vague  and  sweet  reverie  which  that  transitory  mo- 
ment of  delight  occasions  me.  Ah!  when  will  you 
belong  to  me,  my  angel,  in  the  sight  of  all  men? 
When  shall  I  be  able  to  enjoy  every  moment  of  the 
day  this  happiness  which  has  just  escaped  me  like 
a  dream,  and  other  happiness  even  greater  still?  I 
can  hardly  believe,  in  truth,  that  this  will  be  possi- 
ble; but,  nevertheless,  it  shall  be  so,  for  a  day  will 
come  when  my  caresses  will  no  longer  be  cut  short 
by  the  alarm  of  my  Adèle,  and  when,  perhaps,  she 
will  deign  to  return  those  of  her  husband.  Oh,  shall 
I  not  then  die  of  happiness? 

I  wish  that  you  could  know  with  what  idolatrous 
devotion  my  whole  being  prostrates  itself  before 
yours,  with  what  a  profound  sentiment  of  respect  and 
love  I  kiss  the  ground  beneath  your  feet.  Yes, 
Adèle,  nothing  of  all  this  is  exaggerated;  these  are 
truths  only  too  feebly  expressed.  What  have  I  done 
that  God  should  graciously  permit  me  to  be  loved 
by  an  angel,  by  my  adored  Adèle?  Adieu,  my 
happiness,  my  life,  my  joy,  adieu;  I  embrace  you, 
and  I  embrace  you  yet  once  more. 

Paris,  Wednesday  Morning,  June  ^th. 
My  dearest  Adèle,  the  first  time  I  see  you  I  should 
like  to  throw  myself  at  your  knees,  and  kiss  the  ground 
under  your  feet.     If  you  knew  what  happiness  your 

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letters  afford  me,  and  with  what  courage  they  inspire 
me,  you  would  spend  all  the  time  in  which  we  are 
not  together  in  writing  to  me.  For  myself,  when 
I  write  to  you,  I  wish  to  let  my  pen  follow  the  dic- 
tates of  my  own  heart.  It  seems  to  me  when  I  take 
up  this  sweet  occupation  it  will  be  easy  to  me  to  tell 
you  all  that  is  in  my  soul;  but  I  am  suddenly  sur- 
prised to  find  that  I  cannot  express  what  I  feel,  and 
what  I  wish  to  say.  Adèle,  all  that  the  mere  thought 
of  you  causes  me  to  feel  is  inexpressible.  You  fill 
my  soul  as  if  I  had  a  divinity,  a  heaven  on  earth, 
for  myself  alone.  I  wish,  sometimes,  to  adore  you 
with  idolatrous  worship,  my  Adèle.  You  inspire  me 
with  all  the  tender,  noble,  and  generous  sentiments 
of  which  your  own  nature  is  composed.  I  respect 
you,  I  venerate  you,  I  esteem  j^ou,  I  admire  you,  I 
love  you  to  the  point  of  adoration  ;  and  when  you  tell 
me  to  repeat  often  that  I  am  your  husband,  you  can- 
not divine  what  is  the  extent  of  my  joy  and  of  my 
pride!  Oh,  yes,  I  am  your  husband,  your  defender, 
your  protector,  your  slave;  on  the  day  that  I  lose 
that  conviction,  I  am  assured  that  my  very  existence 
will  cease,  because  there  will  no  longer  be  any  foun- 
dation for  my  life.  Adèle,  you  are  the  only  person 
to  whom  I  can  confide  all  that  within  me  which  de- 
sires, loves,  and  hopes — that  is  to  say,  my  soul  itself. 
If  it  is  of  any  importance  to  3^ou  to  spare  me  a  lively 
distress,  do  not,  I  implore  you,  dearest,  repeat  to 
me  again  that  the  proofs  of  tenderness  and  devotion 
which  you  deign  to  bestow  upon  me  can  ever  inspire 
me  with  any  other  sentiment  than  that  of  the  deepest 
and  most  respectful  gratitude.    If  you  only  knew  how 

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The    Love   Letters   of  Victor  Hugo 

great  is  my  delight  when  I  find  that  she  to  whom 
I  have  confided  my  happiness  confides,  in  her  turn, 
in  me;  when  you  allow  me,  without  fear,  to  enfold 
your  pure  and  virginal  form  in  my  arms,  it  seems  to 
me  that  you  could  give  me  no  higher  proof  of  esteem, 
and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  great  is  my  pride  in  be- 
ing so  esteemed  by  an  angel  like  yourself!  There- 
fore, your  husband  ventures  to  hope  that  you  will 
not  be  inexorable,  and  that  if  you  love  him,  you  will 
not  refuse  him  a  few  mornings  like  that  happy  one 
of  the  day  before  yesterday.  I  entreat  you  so  ear- 
nestly. 

Saturday,  July  20th. 

Take  care,  Adèle,  not  to  accuse  me  again  of  not 
caring  to  write  to  you,  or  I  may  henceforward  spend 
all  my  time  in  doing  so.  You  tell  me  truly  that  I 
can  easily  devote  an  hour  to  an  hour  and  a  half  each 
day  to  writing  to  you,  and  you  would  be  right,  if  an 
hour  or  an  hour  and  a  half  were  sufficient  for  me  to 
write  to  you  in.  You  do  not  know,  dear  love,  after 
what  long  meditation  I  begin  these  letters.  It  seems 
to  me  that  when  I  converse  thus  with  you,  I  cannot 
sufficiently  search  the  depths  of  my  soul.  If  I  lis- 
tened only  to  my  own  perpetual  thought,  if  I  gave 
free  play  to  my  pen,  I  should  write  to  you  continu- 
ally that  I  loved  you,  and  always  that  I  love  you, 
unless  I  devoted  myself  to  describing  to  you  all 
the  sentiments  that  this  solitary,  this  splendid  idea 
arouses  in  my  heart;  otherwise,  Adèle,  these  letters 
would  be  simple  repetitions  one  of  another. 

This  explanation  has  doubtless  wearied  you,  but 
now  that  it  has  been  given,  dear  love,  do  not  again 

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repeat  a  cruel  reproach,  which  ought  not  to  present 
itself  to  your  heart,  because  it  is  cruel,  nor  to  your 
mind,  because  it  is  unjust.  You,  who  are  so  kind 
and  so  gentle,  you  would  not  wish  to  give  pain  to 
your  Victor?  And  I  ask  you,  Adèle,  my  darling, 
how  can  you  doubt  for  a  single  moment  the  happi- 
ness that  I  enjoy  from  pouring  out  thus  in  these 
letters  all  that  can  be  expressed  of  the  inexpressible 
love  that  I  have  for  you? 

You  do  not  know,  Adèle,  what  a  weight  was  on 
my  heart  during  the  sad  period  of  our  separation — 
the  burning  passion  that  I  was  obliged  to  keep  sealed 
up  in  my  heart,  and  which  devoured  me.  Do  you 
recall  or  have  you  still  the  first  letter  that  I  then 
wrote  you?  Alas,  Adèle,  do  you  remember  what  a 
welcome  you,  at  first,  accorded  it?  ...  I  do  not 
blame  you,  my  angel,  for  you  knew  very  little  of 
me  in  those  times.  It  is  a  year  to-day  since  I  arrived 
from  Dreux.  Let  us  not  complain  of  heaven.  To-day 
I  am  very  near  to  my  happiness,  and  on  the  day  of 
that  arrival  I  was  far  from  believing  that  a  year 
would  suffice  to  place  it  within  my  reach.  Oh,  my 
Adèle,  forgive  me,  for  I  am  doubting  you,  and  I  be- 
lieve that  all  my  happiness  is  disappearing.  For- 
give me  !  for  you  have  sufficiently  proved  to  me  that 
your  beautiful  soul  is  made  for  all  the  noble  virtues 
of  a  constant,  pure,  and  devoted  love.  Oh!  how  I 
love  3^ou  !  how  I  have  always  loved  you  !  And  why 
should  I  complain  of  life,  since  I  have  found  in  it 
an  angel  like  yourself  as  a  companion? 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   HtLgo 

RETURN   TO  PARIS* 

Tuesday  Morning, 

I  have  just  awakened,  my  Adèle,  overcome  with 
sadness  at  not  doing  so  in  the  same  house  with  yoiir- 
self.  You  will  not  be  able  to  comprehend  how  long 
and  unbearable  the  days  spent  at  Paris  seem  to  me. 
All  my  time  is  a  desert;  all  my  days  are  empty, 
notwithstanding  they  are  filled  with  a  multitude  of 
distractions  that  certainly  did  not  follow  me  to  Gen- 
tilly.  Alas,  Adèle,  when  shall  I  have  you  always 
beside  me?  At  this  moment  you  are  far  from  your 
Victor  ;  your  attention  is  given  to  others  ;  you  think 
no  longer  of  our  happiness  at  Gentilly;  you  laugh, 
perhaps,  while  he  whose  thoughts  are  absorbed  by 
you  is  here  alone,  sad,  and  yet  thinking  with  dis- 
taste of  the  moment  when  he  will  be  obliged  to  cease 
being  alone,  and  to  leave  ofï  appearing  sad. 

The  day  before  yesterday,  at  the  same  hour,  how 
happy  I  was!  Why  should  such  moments  pass? 
Why  cannot  two  human  beings  who  love  each  other 
spend  their  lives  in  each  other's  presence?  Adèle — oh  ! 
I  wish  to  believe  that  this  happiness  will  be  granted 
us.  I  will  believe  it,  for  otherwise  I  should  flee  from 
the  long  future  which  I  have  still  to  live  through. 
But  why,  if  this  happiness  is  in  store  for  your  Victor, 
may  he  not  enjoy  it  now?  Would  the  prompt  fulfil- 
ment of  our  destiny  derange  in  some  respect  the  fate 
of  other  men?  Or  is  it  a  matter  of  consequence 
to  the  Deity  that  our  eternity  of  happiness  should 
begin  a  few  months  earlier  or  later? 

*  They  only  returned  to  Gentilly  on  rare  and  brief  occasions. 

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When  I  think  of  all  this,  I  am  ready  to  murmur 
like  an  idiot.  If  there  is  an  exceptional  case,  it  is 
mine  ;  and  yet  I  complain  !  But  tell  me,  my  dearest 
Adèle,  is  it  not  excusable  to  abandon  oneself  to  im- 
patience when  one  is  awaiting  the  day  on  which  a 
life,  that  has  hitherto  been  so  full  of  suffering,  will  be 
united  to  that  of  the  purest  angel  who  has  ever  ex- 
isted? Yes,  Adèle,  it  is  as  impossible  to  exaggerate 
in  speaking  of  you  as  in  speaking  of  the  love  which 
you  deserve  and  which  you  inspire.  Alas!  and  yet 
I  was  capable  of  causing  you  to  shed  tears  the  day 
before  j^esterday.  .  .  .  Angel,  at  such  moments  I  am 
very  much  to  blame,  but  I  entreat  you  to  believe  that 
I  am  also  very  unhappy.  I  cannot  tell  you  all  that 
passes  within  me  when  I  see  my  adored  Adèle  weep- 
ing on  my  account!  And  if  this  happens  in  a  mo- 
ment of  happiness,  oh,  then  what  I  feel  is  beyond 
expression.     It  is  both  heaven  and  hell. 

Adieu  for  this  morning,  my  Adèle.  I  am  going  to 
see  you  soon  for  a  few  minutes.  That  is  a  happiness 
that  I  enjoy  a  long  time  in  advance. 

Wednesday  Evening, 
You  cannot  realize  at  this  moment,  dear  love,  how 
much  good  those  few  words  of  yours  caused  me! 
You  will  be  pleased,  for  you  love  me,  and  it  must, 
therefore,  be  sweet  to  you  to  perceive  with  what  pas- 
sion I  love  you  in  return.  Do  not  tell  me,  however, 
that  I  shall  never  understand  to  what  an  extent  you 
love  me.  What  affection  cannot  I  comprehend, 
Adèle,  I  who  love  you  with  a  love  that  is  infinite  and 
eternal?    Love  me  as  much  as  I  love  you,  my  angel, 

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and  we  shall  enjoy  the  most  perfect  happiness  that 
life  can  contain. 

How  can  you  fear  that  I  should  ever  desert  you? 
No  !  my  dearest  Adèle,  your  husband  will  be  your 
companion  in  joy  and  sorrow,  until  death,  and  beyond 
it.  This  is  the  thought  which  fills  his  soul  and 
inspires  him  with  confidence.  Adieu,  my  adored 
Adèle.  I  will  conclude  to-morrow.  I  am  going  to 
kiss  your  letter  and  the  lock  of  your  hair.  That  will, 
perhaps,  enable  me  to  sleep  as  I  hope  you  are  now 
sleeping  at  this  moment.     Adieu. 

Thursday  Morning, 
I  will  not  tell  you  that  my  first  thought  is  for  my 
Adèle,  for,  as  I  think  and  dream  continually  of  you, 
I  can  offer  3^ou  neither  first  nor  last  thoughts,  but 
the  single  thought  which  alone  dominates  my  soul 
and  my  whole  life.  And  you,  Adèle,  have  you  slept 
well?  How  I  weary  to  see  you,  to  read  what  you 
wrote  to  me  last  evening!  I  hope  that  you  have  no 
further  distress,  or,  at  any  rate,  that  you  will  have 
none  this  evening  when  I  see  you.  Oh,  my  Adèle,  I 
shall  not  see  3^ou  till  this  evening  !  I  had  formed  the 
habit  of  happiness  by  seeing  j^ou  often,  and  every 
day,  and  this  sweet  custom  only  renders  me  un- 
happy in  Paris. 

Thursday  Evening, 
Alas!  .  .  .  My  Adèle,  it  is  with  this  word  that 
all  my  letters  should  now  begin.  I  am  very  un- 
happy. It  seems  to  me  a  bad  omen  that  I  should 
see  you  so  seldom,  and  only  in  the  midst  of  so  much 
embarrassment.     Perhaps  I  should  believe — and  I 

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adopt  the  idea  eagerly  because  it  comes  from  j^ou — 
that  I  have  not  yet  sufficiently  paid  for  the  immense 
happiness  which  is  so  near  me.  I  have  indeed  suf- 
fered greatl}^  but  I  am  going  to  be  so  happy!  Ah, 
no  suffering  could  pa}^  for  this  felicitj''. 

Adèle,  alas,  I  do  not  know  how  to  tell  you  of  the 
state  of  my  soul.  I  think  of  our  future  happiness 
which  is  approaching,  and  I  am  sad  !  Dear  love,  you 
are  at  this  moment  the  victim  of  so  many  annoyances, 
so  many  cares!  Angel,  the  handkerchief  steeped  in 
your  tears  is  not  yet  dry.     How  can  I  think  of  joy? 

And  this  guarantee  which  is  forever  promised,  and 
which  still  does  not  come!  Adèle,  must  I  own  to  you 
my  weakness?  These  delays  are  torturing  me  at 
present,  because  they  disquiet  3^ou.  I  have  confi- 
dence only  in  your  confidence,  as  I  have  joy  only  in 
your  jo3^  and  pain  only  in  your  pain.  Dear  love, 
when  I  think  of  those  who  are,  perhaps,  holding 
my  happiness  in  both  their  hands,  I  experience  in- 
expressible emotions  of  rage  and  grief.  Yes,  rage! 
Oh,  the  man  who  obliges  me  to  delaj^  for  one  month 
the  happiness  of  possessing  you  will  not  be  acting  in 
his  own  interest.  The  happiness  that  comes  to  me 
through  you,  Adèle,  is  sacred.  Cursed  be  he  who 
interferes  with  it,  or  who  ever  shall  interfere  with  it! 

Adieu  for  this  evening.  To-morrow  I  hope  to  be 
able  to  continue.  Why  cannot  I  write  to  you  with- 
out ceasing?     Why  am  I  obliged  to  work? 

Friday, 
I  have  very  little  time  before  me,  dear  love,  for  it 
is  nearly  six  o'clock.     I  have  just  finished  my  work 

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and  dined.  My  whole  day  has  disappeared  without 
my  being  able  to  write  to  you.  All  my  days,  Adèle, 
are  sad  now,  and  insipid.  Keep  up  your  courage,  I 
entreat  you,  for  my  own  is  very  nearly  exhausted. 
I  had  three  such  happy  months  before  this  sad  one! 
I  had  become  accustomed  to  happiness;  I  almost 
believed  it  was  life  itself.  And  now  I  am  forced  to 
resume  this  insupportable  existence,  which  so  cruelly 
recalls  to  me  the  past  year.  I  must  lay  aside  those 
habits  which  it  was  so  sweet  to  me  to  learn,  and  I 
must  resume  the  habits  which  it  had  been  so  sweet 
to  me  to  abandon. 

But  even  at  Gentilly,  where  I  was  so  happy,  Adèle, 
something  was  lacking;  everything  was  lacking! 
I  shall  only  be  perfectly  happy  when  I  can  pass 
all  my  time  at  your  side;  and  you  will  remember 
that  this  was  very  far  from  being  the  case  at  Gen- 
tilly. And  yet,  what  would  I  not  give  to  be  there 
still? 

I  remember  with  delight  my  walks  to  Arcueil,  and 
to  Bourg-la-Reine,  etc.  I  recall  our  water  parties, 
where  I  had  the  happiness  of  steering  the  boat  which 
carried  you  ;  I  recall  often,  with  joy,  and  yet  with 
inexpressible  sadness,  those  little  brief  visits  which 
my  adored  wife  deigned  to  make  me  during  the  morn- 
ings in  my  happy  tower.  I  live  again  within  myself 
those  moments  of  intoxicating  enjoyment.  Oh!  tell 
me  that  they  will  return,  my  darling  Adèle,  and  that 
they  will  then  bring  us  an  even  greater  happiness,  a 
more  complete  felicity.  .  .  .  Forgive  me  for  saying 
we,  but  you  yourself  wish  that  I  should  believe  in 
your  love,  and  how,  indeed,  can  I  live  if  I  do  not 

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The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

believe  in  it?    Adèle,  I  would  give  twenty  years  of 
my  life  to  be  only  two  months  older! 

Tuesday,  8.30  a.  m. 
I  wish  to  relieve  myself  this  morning  of  some  mo- 
ments of  annoyance,  and  of  one  annoj^ance  in  par- 
ticular. What  are  you  doing  at  this  instant?  Have 
you  slept  well,  my  Adèle?  Are  you  thinking  of  me? 
Are  you  writing  to  me?  What  are  you  sa3àng  to  me? 
What  is  in  your  thoughts?  Ah!  is  it  right  that  I 
should  be  forced  to  ask  these  questions  of  myself  at 
every  moment  of  the  day?  Ought  I  not  to  be  contin- 
ually in  your  presence?  It  is  really  true  that  I  am 
conscious  of  my  soul  and  of  my  life  only  when  I  see 
your  face  and  hear  your  voice.  At  a  distance  from 
this  happiness  all  is  dark  around  me,  and  I  am,  in 
a  certain  sense,  indifferent  to  my  own  identity.  I 
see  objects  move  around  me,  I  hear  sounds  enun- 
ciate themselves,  but  nothing  interests  me,  and  only 
something  of  an  unusual  character  can  draw  me  from 
this  apathy.  If  conversation  goes  on  around  me, 
I  dream  undisturbed;  if  I  am  directly  addressed,  I 
answer  incoherently.  Adèle,  it  is  you  who  are  the 
cause  of  this  unbalanced  condition,  and  it  is  yovi  who 
are  also  its  remedy.  Let  me  believe,  I  implore  you, 
that  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you,  that  you  love 
me  as  I  love  you  ;  repeat  this  to  me  continually,  and 
do  not  refrain  from  repeating  it,  if  you  wish  that  I 
should  love  that  life  which  is  so  sweet  to  me  with 
you,  so  terrible  and  so  insupportable  without  you. 

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Friday  Morning, 
Are  you  writing  to  me  at  this  moment,  or  are  you 
at  least  thinking  of  me,  my  Adèle?  I  am  very  much 
cast  down  ;  I  am  in  sore  need  of  you  at  my  side,  with 
your  sweet  voice  and  gentle  glance.  It  seems  now 
such  a  long  time  since  our  happiness  at  GentilljM 
What  is  going  to  become  of  me  in  this  great  Paris? 
All  my  time,  which  at  Gentilly  was  divided  between 
the  happiness  of  seeing  you  and  that  of  working  for 
you,  is  now  being  wasted,  without  happiness,  and 
almost  without  exertion.  You  may  say,  and  with 
truth,  that  I  am  here  in  a  much  better  position  for 
conducting  all  our  affairs,  and  that  for  this  reason 
my  time  will  not  be  lost  ;  but  obligations  which  take 
me  away  from  you  are  to  the  last  degree  uninteresting. 
I  do  not  know  that  I  am  justified  in  writing  you  at 
the  present  moment,  Adèle.  I  am  deeply  depressed, 
and  I  cannot  shake  off  this  depression.  I  repeat  to 
myself  all  that  you  said  to  me  yesterday  evening,  in 
hopes  of  comfort,  especially  that  we  shall  see  each 
other  every  day  ;  but  I  had  formed  that  sweet  habit  of 
being  near  you  at  all  times,  absent  or  present,  of 
sleeping  and  waking  under  the  same  roof  with  you, 
of  taking  my  meals  at  your  side,  of  feeling  your 
hand  touch  mine,  of  waiting  upon  you.  .  .  .  Alas, 
my  Adèle,  must  there  be  nothing  of  all  this  hence- 
forward? I  must  resume  my  old  manner  of  life,  I 
must  again  become  restless  and  solitary,  while  the 
house  which  contains  you  might  be  in  flames  with- 
out my  being  on  the  spot  to  save  you  in  my  arms. 

You  will  treat  such  ideas  as  madness,  and  you 
will  be  perfectly  right,  for  my  love  is  constantly  seek- 

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ing  from  my  imagination  fresh  occasion  for  anxiety 
and  alarm.  But  you  must  know,  as  well  as  I  do, 
my  beloved  one,  that  souls  which  are  endowed  in  a 
high  degree  with  the  capacity  of  loving,  create  for 
themselves,  at  every  turn,  miseries  which  other  souls 
do  not  understand.  I  am  now  in  one  of  these  mo- 
ments of  overwhelming  depression.  I  desire  to  work, 
and  yet  my  mind  contains  nothing  but  a  vague 
uneasiness  and  regret  for  our  lost  happiness  at  Gen- 
tilly.  Two  months  hence,  it  is  true  .  .  .  But  two 
months  last  a  long  time!  Oh,  my  adored  Adèle, 
reanimate  me  with  courage  for  these  two  long  months  ; 
love  me  a  little  as  I  love  you  ;  write  to  me  often,  my 
Adèle  ;  speak  to  me  constantly  of  all  with  which  my 
thoughts  are  filled,  and  love  me,  love  me,  for  then  I 
shall  never  be  unhappy. 

Adieu;  pardon  this  illegible  writing,  and  accept 
a  thousand  kisses  from  your  poor  husband,  from 
your  Victor. 

9  P.M. 

Adèle,  it  seems  to  me  that  an  age  has  passed  since 
I  saw  you.  I  cannot  imagine  to  myself  that  37^ester- 
day  at  this  very  hour  I  was  near  you.  Yesterday  I 
was  entirely  happy.  Oh,  when  will  all  my  moments, 
each  and  all,  be  passed  thus?  When  shall  I  be  every 
day  your  companion?  When  will  it  be  in  my  power 
to  watch  over  every  hour  of  your  existence,  waking 
and  sleeping?  Dear  love,  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
more  nearly  this  happy,  and  thousand  times  happy, 
period  approaches,  the  more  vcvy  uneasy  impatience 
redoubles.  If  you  could  only  know  all  that  passes 
in  my  soul  when  I  think  of  you,  and  of  the  immense 
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happiness  which  is  to  come  to  me  through  you!  I 
seek  in  vain  for  means  of  expression;  vay  thoughts 
are  all  confused,  and  my  mind  is  nothing  but  a  chaos 
of  love,  intoxication,  and  joy. 

In  truth,  I  fear  that  day  when  I  shall  be  able  to 
proclaim  in  the  face  of  all  men  :  She  is  mine,  entirely, 
exclusively,  eternally  mine!  Yes,  I  fear  that  on 
that  day  my  being  will  give  way  under  so  much  hap- 
piness. So  much  joy  entering  violently  into  my 
soul  must,  so  it  seems  to  me,  completely  overwhelm 
it.  What  a  moment  that  will  be  when  I  shall  enter 
into  all  the  happiness  of  my  whole  life,  that  hap- 
piness which  for  so  long  a  time  has  been  held  out  to 
me  without  my  being  able  to  reach  it  !  My  solitude 
will  then  be  pervaded  with  an  angel,  and  it  is  she 
who  will  put  an  end  to  my  isolation  !  And  when  I  think 
that  this  well-beloved  angel  permits  me  to  believe 
that  she  also  looks  forward  a  little  to  that  day  towards 
which  all  my  desires,  all  my  efforts,  are  so  ardently 
directed,  then  I  forget  all  the  cruel  trials  that  I  have 
endured,  to  dream  only  of  the  intoxicating  future 
that  is  promised  me,  and  I  acknowledge  that  all  my 
sufferings  are  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  such 
great  happiness. 

Adèle,  the  time  will  soon  come  when  I  shall  enjoy 
in  your  presence  the  rights  of  a  husband  and  the 
duties  of  a  slave.  I  shall  have  it  in  my  power  to 
protect  you  and  to  do  you  service,  to  dissipate  all 
your  griefs  with  my  caresses,  to  dry  your  tears  with 
my  kisses;  or,  rather,  you  shall  then  have  neither 
griefs  nor  tears.  You  will  be  happy,  will  you  not? 
and  my  joy  will  repose  in  yours.     If  troubles  over- 

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take  us — and  in  this  respect  let  us  have  no  illusions, 
for  they  will  surely  come — they  will  be  of  no  mo- 
ment, because  we  shall  bear  them  together,  or,  rather, 
because  3^our  smile  will  enable  me  to  support  them. 
For  in  all  the  occurrences  of  our  future  life  your  part 
will  be  to  console  me,  mine  to  protect  you. 

Now,  I  am  going  to  count  up  the  days  until  that 
when  I  may  expect  to  receive  the  voucher  for  my  pen- 
sion, notwithstanding  that  I  have  been  warned  that 
the  delay  may  last  another  six  weeks.  No  matter; 
I  feel  as  though  all  the  offices  must  hasten  their  work, 
because  I  expect  to  be  happy  at  its  conclusion.  All 
this  savors  of  madness,  but  what  would  you  have? 
It  is  you  yourself  who  are  responsible.  Why  have 
you  caused  your  Victor  to  lose  his  reason? 

In  truth,  ever  since  our  marriage  became  for  me 
the  most  certain  thing  under  heaven,  I  have  been 
surprised  that  each  moment  should  be  detained  by 
the  business  that  belongs  to  it.  I  ask  myself  how  it 
can  be  that  the  realization  of  the  purest  and  most 
ideal  hopes  should  be  retarded  by  an  obstacle  so 
material  as  money  !  Yet  so  it  is.  It  is  like  seeing  a 
cloud  bound  down  with  an  iron  chain. 

Adieu,  my  adored  Adèle.  Forgive  me  all  my  wan- 
derings, send  me  to-morrow  a  long  letter,  and  receive 
in  exchange  a  thousand  kisses  from  your  husband, 
from  him  whose  idol  and  whose  angel  you  are. 

Monday,  August  sth,  g  p.m. 
Dear  love,  I  have  just  read  your  letter,  and  I  am  as 
happy  as  it  is  possible  for  your  Victor  to  be  apart 
from  you.     My  only  regret — and  it  is  a  regret  of  the 

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keenest— is  that  I  did  not  see  you  take  this  letter  from 
your  bosom.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  enjoy  a  double 
happiness  when  I  can  kiss  both  the  characters  that 
your  hand  has  traced  and  the  paper  that  has  touched 
your  bosom.  Do  not  laugh  at  my  folly;  it  really 
seems  to  me  that  a  letter  which  has  lain  near  your 
heart-beats  partakes  of  something  deeply  mysterious 
and  exquisitely  tender. 

Monday,  Aug,iist  12th,  10  p.m. 

My  dearest  Adèle,  you  are  suffering  at  this  mo- 
ment. Since  I  cannot  see  you,  I  am  about  to  write 
to  you.  It  may  be  that  this  unexpected  letter  will 
procure  for  you  to-morrow  a  moment's  pleasure. 
Alas!  I  am  much  to  be  pitied  for  not  being  near  you 
at  a  time  when  you  stand  in  need  of  support.  How 
fortunate  are  those  who  surround  you! 

Oh,  my  Adèle,  if  you  knew  with  what  emotion  I 
have  just  seen  once  again  the  deserted  chamber,  so 
distant  from  that  in  which  you  will  sleep  !  I  was  far 
from  being  completely  happy,  even  at  that  dear  Gen- 
tilly,  and  yet  it  is  always  for  me  an  ever-present  grief 
that  we  left  it. 

You  distressed  me  very  much  yesterday,  but  since 
you  are  ill,  I  will  not  reproach  you.  Yet  I  could  not 
refrain  from  observing,  with  pain,  that  when  we  were 
driving  you  kept  j^our  eyes  closed  nearly  all  the  way. 
Great  heavens!  m}^  Adèle,  I  do  not  blame  you.  You 
were  suffering,  and  if  this  relieved  you,  you  were 
right  to  do  so.  Only  if  it  had  been  I  who  was  suffer- 
ing, it  seems  to  me  that  I  should  have  believed  myself 
cured  by  fixing  my  eyes  on  you.     However  that  may 

22d> 


The    Love    Letters    of   Vicior   Hugo 

be,  my  dear,  my  dearest  love,  I  repeat  that  3^ou  were 
right  to  close  your  eyes  if  it  relieved  j^ou,  and  I  will 
complain  of  notliing,  provided  I  find  my  wife  com- 
pletely restored  to-morrow  evening. 

Adieu  for  this  evening,  my  adored  Adèle.  I  hope 
that  3^ou  will  sleep.  Accept  a  thousand  kisses  from 
your  husband,  who  is  truly  very  sad. 

Monday,  August  igth,  1-2  a.m. 

To  see  you  only  for  a  couple  of  hours  a  day,  after 
so  much  happiness  recently  enjoyed  at  Gentilly! 
Dear  love,  this  in  itself  would  be  sufficient  to  make 
me  miserable,  but  it  seems  to  be  necessarj^  that  even 
when  I  do  see  you  my  delight  should  be  poisoned! 
It  is  not  enough  that  we  should  be  separated,  but 
your  sleep  must  be  disturbed,  your  nights  broken.* 
.  .  .  And,  notwithstanding  this,  what  reward  do  you 
obtain  for  your  care  and  3^our  trouble?  I  must 
own  that  in  the  few  moments  that  I  spend  with  you 
my  patience  is  verj^  nearly  exhausted.  I  have  re- 
strained myself,  but  it  has  required  all  my  dread  of 
creating  anno3^ance  for  you  to  achieve  this  painful 
victory  over  myself.  All  my  being  revolts  when  I 
see  you,  my  Adèle,  my  dearest  wife,  the  object  of 
indirect  and  unjust  reproach,  or  of  unreasonable 
demands. 

No,  I  am  not  willing  that  you  should  lose  37^our 
rest,  that  3^ou  should  sacrifice  3'our  health.  Re- 
flect, m3^  dear,  good,  too  good  Adèle,  that  this  is  just 
the  sarne  thing  as  sacrificing  my  health  and  m3^  re- 

*  Mme.  Foucher  was  then  near  her  confinement,  and  her  daugh- 
ter often  sat  up  at  night  with  lier. 

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pose.  I  desire  that  you  should  sleep  every  night,  for 
otherwise  how  can  I  sleep,  knowing  you  to  be  keeping 
watch?  I  ask  you  to  have  pity  on  yourself,  from  pity 
to  me.  Tliis  may  be  egoism,  if  you  will,  for  in  all  that 
concerns  you  I  am  an  egoist.  I  suffer  through  you, 
just  as  I  rejoice  through  you. 

Thursday. 

Do  not  doubt,  dear  love,  that  we  have  a  special 
destiny  in  life.  We  enjoy  that  rare  intimacy  of  the 
soul  which  constitutes  the  happiness  of  heaven  and 
earth.  Our  approaching  marriage  will  be  only  the 
public  consecration  of  another  marriage,  that  ideal 
marriage  of  our  hearts,  of  which  God  alone  has  been 
the  author,  the  confidant,  and  the  witness.  There 
are  moments,  Adèle,  when  I  am  uneasy  at  the  thought 
that  our  exquisite  union  will  some  day  be  made  public. 
It  seems  to  me  the  secret  of  our  happiness  is  a  happi- 
ness apart.  I  should  like  to  hide  it  from  the  eyes  of 
men  :  they  would  be  envious  of  it. 

Oh,  Adèle,  what  a  glorious  future  is  that  of  the 
being  which  heaven  has  associated  with  yours  !  If 
it  be  true  that  in  the  existence  of  all  mankind  happi- 
ness and  misery  are  equal,  then  I  cannot  conceive  a 
misfortune  sufficiently  great  to  balance  the  happi- 
ness of  possessing  you!  Or,  rather,  dearest  Adèle, 
I  know  of  only  one  misfortune — a  terrible  misfortune — 
which  can  punish  me  for  having  enjoyed  such  happi- 
ness. Alas!  I  conjure  you  to  take  the  utmost  care  of 
your  health.  Reflect,  my  adored  angel,  that  my  life 
is  entirely  yours  ;  remember  that  I  fear  only  one  mis- 
fortune in  the  world,  and  that  one  I  shall  not  survive. 

Alas! 

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The   Love   Letters   of  Victor   Hugo 

Friday,  August  z^d,  8.30  p.m. 

It  is  only  by  writing  to  you  that  I  can  console  my- 
self for  not  seeing  you  ;  my  thoughts,  which  are  at 
present  so  sad,  will  at  least  reach  you,  my  Adèle. 
How  happy  I  should  be  if  that  which  occupies  my 
mind  at  a  given  moment  could  at  the  same  instant  be 
transported  to  you.  Perhaps  I  should  find  in  your 
thought  some  remembrance  of  me.  .  .  .  Perhaps? 
.  .  .  Forgive  me  for  having  said  perhaps,  dear  angel, 
for  you  have  told  me  that  you  thought  of  me  without 
ceasing,  and  since  you  have  said  it,  it  is  so.  Ah! 
do  I  not  need  to  be  permeated  with  this  conviction, 
which  is  like  that  of  my  own  existence?  Is  not  my 
love  all  my  life,  and  if  you  ceased  to  share  it,  what 
would  that  life  be? 

Alas,  at  this  very  moment,  my  Adèle,  you  suffer, 
you  are  uneasy,  you  fatigue  yourself,  and  you  look 
forward  to  further  fatigue  at  night.  Oh!  can  it  be 
that  your  repose,  your  sacred  sleep,  must  be  disturbed 
without  my  having  the  right  to  protect  you  from  it? 
You  will  make  an  outcry,  3"ou  will  blame  me,  you  will 
invoke  your  filial  tenderness.  Dear  love,  I  cannot 
find  fault  with  you,  but  may  not  I  complain  as  a 
husband  of  what  you  do  as  a  daughter?  Can  you 
believe  me  capable  of  looking  on  calmly  while  I  see 
your  precious  sleep  sacrificed,  your  strength  exhaust- 
ed, your  health  injured?  And  all  this  in  order  that 
you  may  fulfil  duties  which  three  other  persons 
ought  to  share.  No,  I  will  complain;  I  will  com- 
plain incessantly,  and.  moreover,  I  will  not  be  si- 
lenced. Why  cannot  I  take  upon  mj^self  three  and 
four   times  your  burdens  in  order  to  spare  you? 

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Come,  my  Adèle,  I  am  very  deserving  of  pity.  So 
many  nights  do  I  spend  at  a  distance  from  you. 
Is  that  not  suf&cient  distress  without  having  it 
added  to  by  continual  uneasiness  as  to  the  manner 
in  which  you  spend  yours?  It  seems  to  me  that  I 
see  you  every  minute,  suddenly  wakened,  torn  from 
your  repose,  forced  to  dress  yourself  in  haste  .  .  . 
dear  love. 

You  know,  Adèle,  that  you  are  not  your  own;  you 
know  that  you  are  accountable  to  me  for  all  your 
actions,  and  even  for  the  impulses  of  your  heart.  Do 
not  waste  your  health,  which  is  my  wealth,  I  beseech 
you  ...  ! 

Alas!  you  will  not  listen  to  me,  and  that  is  what 
reduces  me  to  despair.  You  imagine  that  you  are 
at  libertj^  to  use  and  abuse  your  strength,  that  you 
are  mistress  of  your  own  actions.  .  .  .  Ah,  recollect 
what  you  bestowed  upon  me,  in  giving  me  your  love. 
Do  not  laugh  at  my  fears,  I  conjure  you,  since  they 
are  torture  to  me.  You  are  only  a  woman,  my 
Adèle,  although  you  are  an  angel,  and  you  have  not 
sufficient  strength  to  support  sleeplessness  and  fa- 
tigue. Your  plan  for  passing  the  nights,  when  your 
mother  is  confined,  alarms  me;  it  alarms  me  so 
much,  indeed,  that  I  do  not  dare  to  believe  it. 

I  kiss  you  a  thousand  times  on  your  adored  lips. 

Your  Anxious  Husband. 

Monday,  August  26th,  9  p.m. 
It  would  be  very  sweet  to  me,  Adèle,  to  spend  the 
whole  night  in  writing  to  you,  as  I  have  already  done 
so  often;  but  in  order  to  do  so  I  should  be  obliged 

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to  renounce  another  happiness  equally  dear  to  me, 
namely,  that  of  dreaming  of  you,  and  I  prefer  to 
divide  my  night  between  these  two  felicities.  More- 
over, in  doing  so  I  shall  obey  you,  and  that  wdll  be 
an  additional  pleasure. 

Dear  love,  if  you  knew  how  great  is  the  happiness 
of  my  dreams!  .  .  .  Often  the  most  enchanting  illu- 
sions transport  you,  my  adored  Adèle,  to  my  side; 
your  husband  presses  you  to  his  heart,  your  lips 
touch  his,  you  respond  to  his  caresses!  All  his  be- 
ing, Adèle,  is  in  unison  with  yours  !  .  .  .  Then  I  am 
awakened,  by  very  excess  of  happiness,  to  find  va- 
cancy! My  empty  room,  my  Adèle  far  away,  and 
all  the  sad  reality  !  Then,  dear  love,  I  am  as  much 
to  be  pitied  as  I  was  before  to  be  envied,  and  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  pass  at  once  from  heaven  to  hell.  It  is  at 
these  moments  that  my  courage  needs  to  be  roused 
by  the  thought  of  that  day  when  so  many  delicious 
dreams  will  no  longer  be  dreams  and  beyond  my 
reach. 

Alas,  Adèle,  dreams  were  for  so  long  a  time  my 
onlj^  happiness!  During  our  long  and  sad  separa- 
tion I  had  nothing  in  the  world  except  the  sweet  false- 
hoods of  night  and  of  sleep.  Those  nights,  if  my 
sorrow  allowed  me  to  sleep,  were  indeed  the  only 
happj''  portion  of  my  life;  it  was  then  I  realized  that 
the  cruel  misfortunes  of  an  innocent  love  are  tem- 
pered by  that  innocence  itself.  It  seemed  to  me 
at  that  time,  w^hen  my  daj^s  were  so  sad  and  so 
lonely,  that  all  the  happiness  of  my  soul  was  con- 
tained in  my  dreams.  You  appeared  to  me  alwaj^s 
in  sleep,  and  if  sometimes  these  delightful  dreams 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hitgo 

were  mingled  confusedly  with  sad  remembrances, 
still  at  least  you  were  there,  and  your  image  spread 
its  charm  over  all.  You  appeared  to  me  as  the  wit- 
ness of  my  suffering,  the  consoler  of  my  pain,  and 
in  those  cherished  dreams  I  blessed  the  very  sorrows 
to  which  I  owed  the  happiness  of  being  consoled  by 
you! 

But  how  terrible  was  the  awakening  !  I  lost  every- 
thing; even  hope  itself,  almost.  While  now,  even 
when  you  vanish  with  my  dream,  I  retain  the  most 
delightful,  I  will  not  say  of  hopes,  but  of  certain- 
ties. In  a  month,  my  Adèle!  Do  not  you  find  this 
same  month  very  long?  Forgive  this  presump- 
tuous question.  For  a  moment  I  was  carried  away 
by  the  idea  of  being  loved  by  you  as  you  are  adored 
by  me.  Dear  love,  you  have  permitted  me  to  believe 
in  such  great  happiness  ;  you  have  even  ordered  me 
to  do  so  ;  but  I  dare  not  entertain  the  thought.  You 
will,  perhaps,  chide  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  do  so,  my  love, 
chide  me,  but  saj^  to  me,  repeat  to  me,  that  you  love 
me  as  I  love  you.  You  are  well  aware,  Adèle,  that  it 
is  by  such  words  that  I  live;  you  know  that  all  my 
existence  depends  on  yours;  you  know  that  there 
was  a  day  on  which  you  held  my  life  in  your  hands, 
that  day  when  I  dared  to  tell  you  I  loved  you,  and 
when  you  deigned  to  answer  me.  .  .  . 

Adèle,  that  rapturous  answer  decided  my  love,  my 
destiny,  my  eternity.  Onl3^  you  yourself  can  tear  it 
from  my  heart,  for,  Adèle,  you  alone  have  the  power 
to  deprive  me  of  the  riches  which  you  bestowed,  of 
your  love.  This  is  the  same  thing  as  telling  you 
that  my  life  is  at  your  discretion.     Do  to  your  Victor 

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what  you  will,  provided  always  that  you  love  him. 
That  is  the  single  necessity  for  his  happiness.  Every- 
thing else  is  of  no  account.  And  thus  I,  when  I  per- 
ceive that  you  are  for  a  moment  cold  or  dissatisfied, 
my  sweet  Adèle,  I  experience  such  pain  as  I  do  not 
know  how  to  describe.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  almost 
cease  to  exist,  for  my  soul  is  ill  at  ease.  A  tender 
word  from  you  restores  me  to  life,  and  that  is  what 
has  happened  to  me  this  evening. 

Adieu.  I  have  carried  away  with  me  as  my  fare- 
well that  which  was  lacking  to  me  yesterday — the 
comfort  of  a  sweet  good-bye,  and  I  am  going  to  sleep 
well;  that  is  to  say,  to  dream  in  silence.  When  will 
my  existence  as  a  widower  cease?  Still  one  long 
month,  and  this  month  will  have  thirty  days,  each 
one  of  which  is  an  age,  and  every  one  of  those  days 
will  have  twenty-four  eternal  hours. 

Adieu,  my  adored  Adèle.  You  are  sleeping  now, 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  I  see  you  in  repose,  your 
charming  eyes  closed,  your  hands  folded  on  yonx 
breast,  those  hands  which  I  have  so  often  covered 
with  kisses  ;  and  I  seem  to  see  your  fresh,  pure  breath- 
ing rising  and  falling  regularly  at  intervals  from 
those  lips  on  which  I  am  not  permitted  to  press  my 
own. 

Oh,  Adèle,  when,  then?  ...  In  a  month,  is  it 
not? 

Tuesday,  August  zjth. 

Adèle,  when  a  sweet  expression  comes  from  your 
lips,  accompanied  by  a  gentle  smile,  you  cannot 
imagine  the  impression  that  is  produced  upon  your 
Victor  !    If  you  only  knew  how  small  a  thing  that  pro- 

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ceeds  from  you  is  sufficient  to  make  me  happy  !  .  .  . 
Sometimes  wlien  I  am  near  you  I  am  afraid  of  being 
carried  away  by  a  sudden  access  of  madness.  When 
I  hear  you  speak  with  such  nobleness  and  tenderness 
I  experience  an  overpowering  temptation  to  seize  you 
in  my  arms  or  to  kiss  the  hem  of  your  garment.  At 
such  times  all  the  crowd  of  indifferent  people  who  sur- 
round us  vanish  from  my  sight.  I  no  longer  see  any 
but  3^ou,  you,  my  angelic  Adèle,  my  adored  wife,  you, 
a  heavenly  and  adorable  young  girl,  and  it  requires 
all  my  strength  to  repress  the  impulses  of  an  almost 
convulsive  passion.  You  know  nothing  of  all  this, 
my  Adèle.  If  at  one  of  these  moments  I  express  to 
you  my  secret  and  overmastering  idea,  you  do  not 
observe  the  excitement  of  my  looks,  and  you  answer 
me  with  a  smile  and  in  a  tranquil  voice.  Oh  no  ;  you 
will  never  comprehend  the  violence  of  my  love.  .  .  . 

Alas! 

Victor. 

Wednesday,  August  zSth,  2  p.m. 
I  shall  see  you  this  evening,  my  Adèle,  only  this 
very  evening.  I  shall  bring  you  good  news,  which 
might  indeed  be  better,  but  then  I  was  afraid  of  some- 
thing worse.  A  reduction  of  two  hundred  francs  does 
not  alarm  me.*  It  will  be  only  so  much  more  to  obtain 
b3^  my  own  exertions.  Moreover,  it  is  possible  that  the 
Pension  Department  of  the  Interior  may  take  pity  on 
us.  And  then — must  I  tell  you  the  truth,  dearest 
Adèle? — it  is  high  time  that  I  should  be  happy.   I  was 

*The  promised  pension  of  1200  francs  was  reduced  to  1000. 
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The    Love    Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

beginning  to  yield  to  my  equivocal  position.  I  was 
sometimes  inwardly  alarmed  at  a  future  which  offered 
me  nothing  on  which  to  fix  mj^  will.  It  was  unbear- 
able to  me  to  see  the  greatest  and  noblest  happiness 
constantly  recede  before  m3^  ej^es  by  reason  of  that 
miserable  pension.  .  .  .  The  latter  was  of  value  to 
me  only  on  account  of  the  former.  It  is,  indeed,  a 
singular  circumstance  in  our  lives  that  we  have  for 
so  long  been  forced  to  mingle  money  considerations 
with  the  affairs  of  the  heart.  Now,  now  everything 
shows  that  this  intolerable  necessity  is  about  to 
cease. 

Oh,  what  a  happy  day  will  be  that  on  which  your 
Victor  will  no  longer  be  obliged  to  enjoy  happiness 
only  in  dreams! 

Thursday,  9.15  p.m. 

I  can  only  repeat  to  you  what  I  have  already  said, 
and  that  which  your  own  charming  letter  of  this  even- 
ing says  so  sweetly.  I  act  at  all  times,  my  adored  an- 
gel, as  Ishould  act  in  your  presence.  All  my  thoughts 
are  known  to  you — they  are,  indeed,  only  one  thought. 
But  how  is  it  possible  that  you  can  ask  me  seriously 
on  this,  the  29th  day  of  August,  1822,  to  give  you 
my  entire  confidence,  when  that  confidence  is  en- 
tirely yours,  and  has  been  so,  ever  since  I  have  had 
a  confidence  to  bestow?  My  Adèle,  are  not  you 
already  in  possession  of  all  my  soul,  all  my  life? 
Listen  to  me,  then  :  My  whole  soul  is  Adèle  ;  my 
whole  life  is  Adèle.  And  how  can  you  imagine  that 
I  should  have — I — anything  concealed  from  you? 
Are  you  not  much  more  mine  than  I  am  yours? 

Oh,  let  us  always  tell  each  other  our  slightest 

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griefs,  our  smallest  joys!  These  confidences,  this 
exquisite  intimacy,  are  both  the  right  and  the  duty 
of  love. 

It  is  in  such  confidence,  as  in  the  jealousy  of  which 
we  spoke  yesterday  evening,  that  the  essence  of  true 
love  lies.  I  am  speaking,  Adèle,  of  that  pure  and 
tender  jealousy  which  is  perfectly  reconcilable  with 
respect,  esteem,  and  enthusiasm  for  the  object  of  our 
love.  It  is  this  sentiment  which  you  have  observed 
in  me  a  thousand  times,  for  I  am  proud  to  own  that 
it  forms  part  of  my  affection  ;  but  I  have  never  been 
able  to  detect  it  in  you.  Adèle,  I  do  not  blame  you  ; 
I  am  no  more  worthy  of  your  jealousy  than  of  your 
enthusiasm,  but  I  should  have  been  so  exquisitely 
happy  to  have  been  worthy  of  them,  and  it  is  the 
conviction  that  I  cannot  boast  of  possessing  them 
that  has  always  caused  me  to  tremble  for  the  reality 
of  your  love. 

Alas,  in  spite  of  this,  there  are  in  your  letter  some 
very  tender  words,  and  in  what  you  said  to  me  this 
evening  there  were  some  delightful  expressions.  .  .  . 
0  Adèle,  if  only  this  happiness  is  really  and  truly 
mine!     I  long  to  sleep  with  this  idea. 

I  embrace  you  here,  delighted  as  I  am  to  have 
found  an  expression  so  tender  at  the  conclusion  of 
your  letter.  I  embrace  you,  and  I  tell  you  that  you 
are  an  angel! 

Saturday,  August  31,  1822. 

Do  not  pity  me,  Adèle,  for  the  evening  of  the  day 
before  yesterday.  Although  I  felt  very  keenly  the 
distress  which  was  occasioned  me  on  your  account, 
yet,  oh!    I  beg  you,  my  dearest  Adèle,  console  me 

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always  in  this  manner  for  tears  which  you  cause  me 
to  shed.  I  would  not  now  exchange  the  grief  which 
you  caused  me,  although  it  was  in  truth  very  keen, 
for  the  happiness  of  angels,  since  it  was  the  means 
of  procuring  me  a  letter  so  affectionate,  and  conso- 
lations so  tender.  Dear  love,  yes,  that  distress  was 
very  severe.  Tears  exhaust  me  greatly.  Those  who 
weep  easily  are  comforted  even  while  they  weep; 
but  I  have  no  such  good  fortune.  Tears  that  I  actu- 
ally shed  are  indeed  a  relief;  but  for  the  most  part 
they  remain  shut  up  in  my  heart,  and  suffocate  me. 
My  mother  trained  me  from  childhood  to  restrain  all 
such  emotion  and  repress  it  within  myself,  for  she 
foresaw  the  value  of  this  to  one  alone  in  life. 

In  spite  of  this,  Adèle,  it  is  very  sweet  to  me  to 
pour  myself  out  to  you.  Fatigue  and  suffering  en- 
dured for  you  are  nothing  ;  but  if  I  see  you  sometimes 
divine  and  pity  them,  then,  my  adored  Adèle,  they  are 
dear  and  precious  to  me. 

Monday,  September  2d. 

I  have  just  finished  working,  and  dined.  The  few 
moments  that  separate  me  from  that  in  which  I  shall 
see  you  again  seem  to  me  very  slow  in  passing.  At 
least  the3^  shall  be  employed  in  writing  to  you,  so  that 
this  happiness  shall  be  mingled  with  my  impatience, 
and  will,  perhaps,  restrain  it. 

What  have  j'^ou  done  to-day?  You  must  have 
thought  of  me  all  day,  for,  as  you  3^ourself  said  yes- 
terday, so  happily,  if  you  could  be  a  moment  without 
thinking  of  me,  it  would  be  the  same  thing  as  not 
thinking  at  all.  How  happj'  it  makes  me,  dear  love, 
that  it  should  be  you  who  have  said  this!     It  is  an 

-239 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor  Hugo 

inspiration  from  your  angelic  heart  which  I  welcome 
with  the  keenest  joy.  If  you  spoke  to  me  always  in 
this  manner,  Adèle,  you  would  never  find  me  doubt 
your  love.  There  are  some  expressions  that  only  be- 
come possible  when  one  loves,  and  this,  which  makes 
me  so  happy,  is  one  of  the  tenderest  that  a  true  affec- 
tion can  utter. 

Adieu,  my  dearest  Adèle;  we  are  going  to  con- 
verse together,  during  a  few  short  moments,  in  re- 
gard to  our  fast-approaching  happiness;  I  am  going 
to  hear  your  dear  voice,  to  see  your  adored  face,  per- 
haps to  snatch  secretly  a  kiss  or  a  caress  from  you. 
This  expectation  transports  me  with  happiness. 
Adieu,  then,  or,  rather,  adieu  is  not  the  right  word, 
since  I  am  going  to  see  you  once  more  after  a  long 

day.  Your  Husband  Victor. 

Thursday,  September  sth,  9.15  p.m. 
My  darling  Adèle,  I  returned  home  this  evening 
with  a  headache.  It  was  occasioned  by  a  very  tri- 
fling thing,  but  a  very  trifling  thing  that  concerns  you, 
Adèle,  means  a  great  deal.  Yes,  I  am  sad,  and  all 
your  tender  words  cannot  dissipate  my  sadness; 
your  sweet  caresses  of  this  evening  cannot  remove 
the  impression  that  your  farewell  left  with  me.  When 
I  approached  you,  and  heard  you  say  as  I  left  you  : 
"  To-morrow  at  six  o'clock  !"  there  was  nothing  that 
showed  me  this  interval  of  absence  would  appear 
very  long  to  you,  as  it  does  to  me.  Adèle,  I  do  not 
know  whether  it  depends  upon  you  to  abridge  it,  but 
it  certainly  rests  with  you  to  render  it  less  insupport- 
able to  me  by  not  appearing  wholly  indifferent  to  it. 

240 


The   Love   Letters   of   J/ictor   Hugo 

A  word,  a  gesture,  a  sign  of  regret,  would  have  been 
almost  sufficient  to  console  me,  yet  at  this  moment, 
in  addition  to  the  pain  of  being  so  long  separated 
from  you,  I  endure  that  of  thinking  that  you  your- 
self do  not  feel  the  separation. 

Do  not  remind  me  here,  Adèle,  of  all  that  you  have 
deigned,  and  will  still  deign,  to  do  for  me.  Great 
proofs  of  devotion  may  be  inspired  by  simple  gen- 
erosity, but  it  is  in  things  of  no  account,  in  words  and 
in  looks,  that  love  reveals  itself.  The  strongest  proofs 
of  love  are  in  a  multitude  of  trifles  imperceptible  to 
any  one  but  the  person  beloved.  It  is  in  the  slightest 
movements,  in  the  prompt,  spontaneous  inspirations 
of  the  soul,  that  its  whole  revelation  lies.  Generosity, 
alas!  does  not  supply  all  this,  and  all  that  you  do 
for  me  may  be,  perhaps,  nothing  more  than  the  re- 
sult of  a  generous  pity,  for  there  is  no  certain  indica- 
tion which  proves  it  to  be  love. 

You  are  going  to  exclaim,  to  blame  me,  to  reproach 
me  with  ingratitude  .  .  .  All  this,  Adèle,  may  be 
still  only  generosity.  Some  sign  of  indifl"erence  es- 
capes you  spontaneously.  It  wounds  me  spontane- 
ously also.  I  am  weak  enough  to  tell  you  of  this 
distress  that  you  have  caused  me  ;  a  simple  feeling  of 
kindness  and  compassion  leads  you  to  make  repara- 
tion for  the  pain  you  have  given,  and  in  order  to  do 
this,  you  employ  the  only  efficacious  means — name- 
ly, words,  or  outward  tokens  of  tenderness.  All  this 
proves  to  me,  what  I  have  said  already,  that  you  are 
kind,  compassionate,  generous,  but  in  no  sense  does 
it  show  me  that  you  love  me. 

I  foresee,  Adèle,  all  that  you  are  going  to  say  to 
Q  241 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

me  to  make  me  change  my  opinion,  because  I  know 
the  excellence  of  your  heart;  but  this  miserable 
thought  has  been  for  a  long  time  in  my  soul.  Noth- 
ing can  remove  it.  You  sometimes  lull  it  to  sleep 
by  strong  protestations  of  love,  but  more  often  you 
arouse  it  by  little  marks  of  indifference.  Adieu.  It 
is  high  time  that  this  letter  should  end.  I  am  really 
unable  to  write  more. 

To-morrow,  then,  at  six  o'clock. 

Recollect,  above  all,  that  I  ask  for  nothing  but 
what  is  in  your  heart.  Whatever  it  may  cost  me, 
I  desire  you  should  show  yourself  to  me  such  as  you 
really  are, 

Saturday,  September  7th,  4.30  p.m. 

I  must  write  you  a  few  words,  my  dearest  Adèle. 
You  must  be  made  aware  how  much  emotion  and 
delight  your  sweet  letter  occasioned  me.  I  read  there 
what,  to  my  great  distress,  you  did  not  tell  me  in  the 
evening — that  you  were  sensible  of  my  absence  from 
you  until  six  o'clock  at  night.  .  .  . 

I  longed  to  write  to  you  yesterday  evening,  but  I 
was  under  the  necessity  of  getting  on  with  the  ro- 
mance, and  I  worked  upon  it  far  into  the  night.  I 
did  so  again  all  of  to-day,  and  now  I  am  rewarding 
myself  by  writing  to  you.  But  I  must  close.  I 
ought  even  now  to  be  at  your  side.  Adieu,  my  dear 
angel.  Why  should  words  fail  me  when  I  attempt 
to  tell  you  the  extent  of  my  respect  and  adoration 
for  you?  Oh!  yes  ...  I  embrace  you,  and  I  em- 
brace you  again.      YOUR  FAITHFUL  HUSBAND. 

Can  you  read  this  scrawl?  I  write  with  a  pen 
which  is  not  worthy  of  the  name. 

242 


The   Love   Letters   of   Victor  Hugo 

Monday,   September    i6th,  9  P.M. 

Dear  Adèle,  I  am  very  sad  this  evening.  I  do  not 
know  what  has  become  of  my  ideas  ;  my  whole  mind 
is  in  disorder,  and  I  am  completely  overwhelmed.  It 
is  a  fact,  then,  that  for  a  week  or  ten  days  I  shall  be 
almost  completely  cut  off  from  you?  *  I  shall  scarce- 
ly have  a  moment's  glimpse  each  day  of  her  whose 
presence  is  my  joy  and  my  life.  Yes,  Adèle,  your 
glances  are  necessary  to  my  existence.  I  need  to  be 
able  to  rest  my  own  upon  you,  upon  you,  who  are  my 
only  riches,  my  only  treasure. 

This  evening  I  am  possessed  by  one  of  those  inde- 
finable moods  of  depression  which  only  possess  me 
on  your  account.  It  seemed  to  me  that  you  were  very 
little  absorbed  by  the  thought  of  our  approaching 
separation.  It  seemed  to  me  you  might  have  warned 
me^  that  we  were  about  to  be  parted.  Nothing  in 
your  face  or  in  your  words  during  the  whole  evening 
gave  me  cause  to  suppose  that  we  should  pass  a  week 
or  ten  days  almost  without  meeting,  and  yet  you 
were  aware  of  it,  Adèle,  for  you  speak  of  it  in  your 
letter. 

See,  dear  love,  these  are  the  signs  that  make  me 
doubt  your  love.  You  tell  me  that  these  doubts  dis- 
tress you,  and,  therefore,  I  will  not  speak  of  them. 
But,  nevertheless,  it  is  a  very  painful  thing  for  me 
not  to  have  been  warned  that  this  evening  was  a  fare- 
well. You  said  the  word  to  me  with  a  tranquillity 
that  reduced  me  to  despair.  Not  that  I  blame  j^ou, 
Adèle,  for  our  speedy  separation,  but  you  made  me 

•Mme.  Fouclier  had  just  been  confined. 


The   Love   Letters   of  Victor   Hugo 

feel  that  it  was  time  for  me  to  leave  in  order  that  you 
might  enjoy  some  repose,  and  I  cannot  believe  that 
you  were  not  answerable  for  this.  What  distresses 
me  so  deeply  is  the  gayety  that  you  displayed  during 
the  evening. 

God  forbid,  however,  that  I  should  ever  wish  to  see 
you  disguise  or  constrain  your  feelings!  I  should 
prefer  that  frank  air  of  pleasure,  even  at  a  moment 
when  I  am  myself  very  sad,  than  a  grief  which  was 
assumed.  Be  always  for  me  outwardly  what  you 
are  inwardly,  for  I  should  prefer  to  be  grieved,  as  I 
was  this  evening,  by  an  excessive  gayety  than  to  be 
rendered  desperate  by  a  simulated  depression.  After 
all,  hypocrisy  is  so  far  from  my  noble  Adèle  that  this 
advice  is  unnecessary.  You  must  not  see  in  all  this 
anything  of  the  nature  of  a  reproach.  If  you  were 
conscious  of  no  distress  at  knowing  that  we  should 
be  separated  for  so  long,  it  is  not  your  fault,  my 
Adèle.  I  felt  at  once  that  you  were  very  excusable 
for  having  forgotten  your  Victor,  among  the  number 
of  things  that  have  claimed  your  attention.  For  my- 
self, I  have  passed  through  keen  and  bitter  grief,  I 
have  been  overwhelmed  by  complicated  business 
affairs,  and  by  pressing  anxieties;  but  never  has 
your  adored  image  ceased  for  a  moment  to  possess 
my  soul.  But  can  I  expect  as  much  from  you?  Who 
am  I  that  I  should  do  so? 

Adieu.  I  am  very,  very  sad,  but  on  reading  over 
your  letter,  and,  above  all,  the  line  which  concludes 
it,  I  am  a  little  consoled.  Adieu,  my  cherished 
angel,  my  dearest  wife.     I  embrace  you  tenderly. 

244 


The   Love   Letters    of  Victor   Hugo 

Tuesday,  October  ist. 

I  have  just  finished  working.  I  am  going  to  write 
to  you  for  relaxation.  This  sweet  occupation  is  the 
reward  of  my  serious  exertions.  It  is  a  happiness 
with  which  I  long  to  fill  all  the  moments  that  are  not 
devoted  to  the  happiness  of  seeing  you. 

But,  my  Adèle,  each  time  that  I  write  to  you  a  fresh 
struggle  takes  place  in  my  heart  and  in  my  thoughts 
against  the  insufficiency  of  words.  Something  is 
always  lacking  in  my  letter,  and  that  something 
which  I  fail  to  express  is,  nevertheless,  exactly  that 
which  I  most  desire  to  reveal.  Adèle,  it  seems  to  me 
that  if  you  love  me,  you  will  be  able  to  read  spontane- 
ously in  my  soul  ;  but  if  you  love  me,  dearest  angel, 
you  must  know  all  that  I  yearn  to  tell  you,  you  must 
^be  able  to  supplement  the  failure  of  those  words,  love, 
adoration,  idolatry,  to  picture  what  I  feel  for  you. 
There  must  be  something  within  your  heart  which 
reveals  to  you  all  the  unspeakable,  inexpressible 
tenderness  for  you  which  is  sealed  up  within  my  own. 

Oh,  Adèle,  when  I  think  that  it  might  have  been 
that  you  did  not  love  me,  I  shudder  as  though  I  stood 
on  the  brink  of  an  abyss.  Alas!  what  would  have 
become  of  me  great  Heaven!  if  this  angel's  regard 
had  not  deigned  to  bestow  itself  on  me?  My  life 
would,  indeed,  have  been  mocked  at  by  heaven  ;  for, 
my  adored  Adèle,  would  it  not  have  been  unjust  to 
allow  me  to  seek  the  soul  destined  for  my  soul  with 
truth  and  purit}^  and  yet  not  permit  me  to  find  it? 

I  have  done  nothing  that  makes  me  unworth3''  of 
you  ;  but  what,  again,  can  I  have  done  that  deserv^es 
you?    Nothing,  alas,  but  love  you,  with  an  ardent, 

245 


The   Love    Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

pure,  and  innocent  love,  and  devote  to  you  till  death, 
and  after  death,  my  whole  being,  my  mortal  and  im- 
mortal existence.  What  is  all  that,  dear  love,  beside 
the  happiness  of  possessing  you? 

Adieu  ;  I  shall  see  you  this  evening.  Shall  I  have 
a  letter  from  you?  I  embrace  you  as  a  husband,  who 
is  most  impatient  to  be  a  husband. 

Friday,  October  4th. 

When  I  reflect,  my  Adèle,  that  our  happiness  is  so 
near,  and  that  henceforward  nothing  can  hinder  it, 
my  life  seems  to  me  like  a  dream.  During  two  years — 
during  one  year — I  was  miserable!  To-day,  what 
happiness!  Sometimes  I  can  hardly  realize  that  I 
have  at  length  escaped  from  that  long,  painful  pe- 
riod when  my  only  joys,  my  only  pleasures,  were  a 
passing  glance  from  you,  a  glimpse  of  your  dress 
perceived  from  afar  off  in  the  street  or  on  the  prom- 
enade, and,  a  little  later,  one  or  two  words  exchanged 
with  timidity  during  a  few  brief  moments'  conver- 
sation. Even  these  for  a  long  time,  were  closely 
watched,  and  rarely  to  be  obtained. 

What  joy  !  All  this  is  in  the  past,  and  there  is  noth- 
ing but  delight  in  our  future.  Nothing  can  separate 
us  any  longer,  Adèle;  nothing  can  now  constrain 
our  interviews,  our  caresses,  our  love  !  I  repeat  that 
I  can  hardly  believe  in  this  happiness,  because  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  have,  even  yet,  done  so  little  to 
deserve  so  much!  The  joy  in  my  soul  is  in  the  same 
condition  as  my  love— that  is  to  say,  expression  fails 
me  to-day  for  the  one  as  it  has  always  failed  me  for 
the  other.     All  words  for  passion  and  devotion  have 

246 


The   Love    Letters   of   Victor   Hugo 

been  so  extravagantly  used  that  they  are  enfeebled 
by  force  of  being  made  common,  and  what  I  myself 
experience  is  an  emotion  of  happiness  so  pure,  so 
sacred,  so  profound,  that  it  resembles  nothing  that 
voioe  or  pen  is  adequate  to  express.  Ask  your  own 
soul,  Adèle,  my  dearest,  and  if  it  is  true  that  j^ou 
love  me,  then  it  will  tell  you  all  that  mine  is  unable 
to  present  in  material  form. 

Our  history,  dear  love,  will  afford  one  more  proof 
of  the  truth,  vouloir  fermement,  c'est  pouvoir.  A  few 
months  have  sufficed  to  overcome  a  great  many  ob- 
stacles; but  what  is  not  possible  to  him  who  loves 
you,  and  who  knows  himself  to  be  beloved  by  you? 

Adieu,  my  adored  Adèle;  your  thrice-happy  hus- 
,band  embraces  you;  he  is  impatient  to  know  how 
you  have  passed  the  night,  and  if  you  are  in  health 
at  this  moment.     Once  more,  adieu. 

The  marriage  of  Victor  and  Adèle  took  place  on  the 
I2th  of  October,  1822,  two  years  and  a  half  from  the  day 
when,  on  April  26,  181 9,  they  had  confessed  their  love. 


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